


How we came to be

by Anihan (Nakagami)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Comment for a full list of warnings, George Kirk being a good mom, Government Experimentation, Kid Fic, Mind melds, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, Sarek being a Good Dad, T'Pau being a badass, Team Triumvirate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:46:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4485359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a series of plot bunnies that were able to be combined into the same universe. Included within: Genderbending galore, nonbinary Spock, baby mind melds, Vulcan social change, and much research. </p><p>AU where Spock Prime deliberately travels to a new universe after the events of the reboot movies, following a time-traveling colony ship that had been marooned during the Augment Wars. The colony ship's arrival centuries before Spock's changes very little in the universe due to their non-interference policy, but Spock is forced to intervene when it becomes obvious that someone is intentionally leaking information about the prime and first alternate universes.<br/> </p><p>tl;dr? Spock Prime travels to a genderbender AU after reboot movies. Female Jim and nonbinary Spock centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How we came to be alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The turning points in their lives.

Subject: Codename Gary Seven, Age unknown. Stardate unknown.

Location: Uncharted Space

 

Where once there had been a big bang, now matter spewed ever onward from a single point in time and space. This matter created a fabric across existence, expanded at a rate measured by humans as 74.38 kilometers per second per megaparsec, able to spread mass throughout the entirety of reality.

It was as if a storm brewed within the center of the universe. Some billions of years into the process, a starship came out of that storm.

The ship’s crew were not quiet about it.

_Yeeooowwwwwwwll, hiiiiissssss._

“Ramses!”

“Gul, my head…”

A man cried, “Man your stations, we’re not out of the woods yet!”

At the same time, another man, “Forget the cat, Lincoln. Our hides are on the line if we don’t get the ship stabilized.”

The cat in question - Ramses - picked himself off the ground with a low hiss, shifting into human form to speak aloud. “Life support steady, shields at 24. Captain?”

Captain Roberta Lincoln, to her credit, did not express her obvious relief aloud. She instantly shifted into emergency mode. “All stations report.” Roberta cried out, shaken terribly by the ship’s unholy groans. “Navigation, status!”

“We’re capable of exiting the storm, Ma’am.”

“Hold us steady, Lieutenant. Comms?”

“Searching for our drop-point, Captain.”

Roberta blanched. “What do you mean, ‘searching’ for it? It’s a beacon; It brought us here. How could you have lost it?”

Supervisor 194 - codename Gary Seven - glanced down at his own screen, and then over toward the Communications Officer’s. “He’s right, Roberta. We’re almost thirty centuries off course. Whatever brought us here, it wasn’t our beacon.”

Roberta paused, then joined Seven at his console. “Mister Seven, that should be impossible. The Augments programmed our course...” Their eyes met and Roberta instantly caught his line of thought. “We either missed our target or…”

Or the Augments marooned us intentionally.

“We missed,” Supervisor 194 stated with some trepidation. His eyes said: ‘Do not question it where they can hear you.’ Roberta nodded. Ramses took the moment to climb onto the console with a frustrated yowl, punctuated by hisses. “You’re right, Ramses. The Red Matter within our possession appears stable. We may be lost but our mission isn’t.”

“Mister Seven,” Roberta paused, lip held between her front teeth. “Our presence here has already altered this timeline irrevocably. Do we act now to counteract our interference? Or do we retreat in silence and hope we have not done to their timeline what was done to our own?”

Supervisor 194 shook off the question. “We have to isolate ourselves so as to not completely destroy this timeline.”

Roberta’s nostrils flared with anger: She always was a quick one. “But how long will that last? We’ve families aboard, Mister Seven. Children. You and I have the best of intentions now but we cannot hope to outlive them all.”

Supervisor 194 nodded. “You are correct, of course. Considering the genetic makeup of our crew, our initial reluctance to communicate with the rest of the universe will likely be overturned to a new regime within a century. The generation time would ensure too many individuals born who do not share our history with the Narada Incident.” Supervisor 194 sighed, and for a moment he looked his age, some two hundred and four years old. “No matter what we do, and no matter our best intentions, word of our existence will get out.”

“So what do we do? We didn’t go far enough into the past to prevent an overlap. This sector of space is not yet occupied, but technology should be significantly advanced enough for us to be seen.”

At this point, the Navigation’s Lieutenant interrupted their conversation with a rude snort. “Okay, so if someone’s looking right at us, at just the right time, with just the right equipment, they’ll see...what? A bonfire in space? We’re in the middle of nowhere!”

Ramses jumped to Roberta’s side. “Our passage through time has left it’s mark across millennia . Our reflection would appear to flicker slightly until the storm has fully collapsed.” He gave the Lieutenant a dirty look. “Visible to the naked eye from Terra in a few short centuries, and likely visible from Andor and Eridani _now_. We cannot hide our presence here.”

“So we’re a tealight hanging out next to a black hole.” The man leaned forward in his seat. “How badly could a tealight change the future?”

.

During the 4th Century of the Eridani system, Surak lived on the planet not yet known as Vulcan. His mission of peace and logic eventually prevailed upon the planet. A faction of locals protested and emigrated to Romulus, and soon warp technology was invented.

Then Surak died. The melding of minds became taboo, its intricacies lost and its specifics tangled by politics. His soul, known as a katra, would be sealed within a temple and hidden for eighteen centuries.

In another time, in another place, 18 centuries later, Lady T’Pau would be the matriarch of the Clan Surak. When she left the secluded Syrannist movement and joined modern Vulcan society in Stardate 2154, T’Pau would bring the knowledge of safe, sane, and consensual mind melds with her. The information - that mind melds were once a natural and healthy addition to any strong filial relationship, and that thoughts were often shared between colleagues and medical professionals - was galvanized by Clan Surak’s support.

In this time, in this place, that didn’t happen.

In 2128 on Vulcan, T’Pau would notice a discrepancy on her star charts. In a life filled with exactness, this minor discrepancy should not have changed anything. But it did. There was nothing inspirational about an inexplicable flicker toward the exact center of the universe, and any adult vulcan would dismiss the observation as irrelevant.

The Lady T’Pau, however, was not an adult yet. She was six, and age, it would seem, was a catalyst for inspiration.

* * *

 

Sarek of Vulcan, Age 65. Stardate 2230.

A baby’s first cry splits the air. The mother’s breath gusts across her husband’s face, and in return Sarek’s hand curls possessively against Amanda’s jaw. The meld between them breaks slowly now that the birth has passed, and Sarek has no inclination to move away.

A masculine voice, that of their healer and midwife, calls out dispassionately to alert them of their child’s specifics. The information is reassuring in its own way, although the passionless delivery amuses Amanda enough to trick her mouth into a smile. Or perhaps that’s the oxytocin talking, as she would say.

Biological sex: Male. Initial weight: 2011 grams. Initial length: 38.62 centimeters from crown to left heel.

Amanda makes a noise of disgruntlement, and Sarek’s hand brushes across her forehead to soothe her.

“I am grateful that you have presented the information in Standard, Healer Tivop,” she replies blithely, absolutely not giving in to the impulse of sticking out her tongue that Sarek can feel flash across her mind. Her childishness engenders amusement that Sarek will not share aloud. Amanda always did have a way of presenting the truth that was… particularly compelling.

Succumbing to her wishes, however, Sarek translates the facts into generalizations. “Our son is short and heavy for a human newborn, although not outside standard deviation. He is underweight for a vulcan newborn, but, again, not dangerously so.”

Healer Tivop decidedly does not radiate disapproval. He continues on with an even more emotionless monotone. “Placental weight is at 36.6% less than initial estimates. Scans of the child’s body indicate mild malnutrition, as expected due to the child’s genetic makeup and stressful gestation.” A few random beeps from several machines sound in the relative silence as the healer makes some complicated calculations. “Breast-feeding should begin in approximately 0.31 hours,” he concludes.

Amanda does not restrain herself this time. She laughs.

Sarek does not begrudge his wife her revelry; he can still feel her incredulity, her joy. Able to indulge his wife’s slight hysteria due to the naturally drugged state of a new mother, Sarek hushes her with a warm mental embrace and two fingers brushed across her zygomatic arch, more of a caress than a rebuke. Her joy is enough to convince him to allow their foreheads to rest together for a brief moment before turning to address the healer.

“Treat our son quickly and return him to us.” Sarek pauses. One of his wife’s hands has migrated to his face, stroking across his brow, and he returns his focus to her at once. “Yes, my wife?”

“Hold him for me.”

Amanda’s voice is firm, and Sarek would not disobey such a direct order. Not when it coincided with his own wants so directly, as many of Amanda’s politely worded demands do.

“Treat him in my arms,” Sarek amends, and Amanda’s approval radiates beneath their skin.

Their son has been cleaned and wrapped in the time since his birth, strong with the scent of amniotic fluid. The boy is given an IV and is placed in his father’s arms, and suddenly Sarek realizes that emotionalism at this point is guaranteed. Healer Tivop appears resigned to an outburst.

It is likely, Sarek concludes, that theirs is not the only family who has found it difficult to regulate their emotions when in this situation. The discovery is a relief. The birth of his first son had not affected Sarek this deeply.

Sarek moves to sit next to his wife’s hip, and Amanda allows herself to be manhandled until she, too, is reclined against his torso. There is nothing to brace against but Sarek’s posture does not falter. The baby is laid prone against Sarek’s chest and curled across Amanda’s right shoulder, and at last they are all in place.

Tivop spares them a quick glance. Sarek nods once, and the healer leaves them in peace.

Sarek’s left hand settles against the side of his wife’s face; his right hand is what connects them to their son. The words, “Our minds are one,” are whispered into Amanda’s hair, and he wills those words to guide Amanda deep into their child’s unformed consciousness. An infant’s brain is a wild and lonely place. At the fore is contentedness, familiarity bred by the frequent melds with the fetus as it formed inside Amanda’s body, and at the aft of the child’s mind is a blinding thirst for knowledge.

No, Sarek amends as he explores the mind further, a thirst for exploration. For understanding. The rest of the child is chaos and endorphins. Not even emotion is fully discernible in the tumultuous mix of proto-thought.

Amanda retreats slightly from the meld, a question formed by practice into words inside their mental space: “Does this child feel like your Sybok does?”

And Sarek is surprised by her thoughts, by her… intuition. Amanda is correct. He does not feel like the other male vulcan infant he had sired, and he shares that impression with her.

The child’s mind is disorganized, as all humanoid infants should be so soon after being born. Underneath, however, the desire to communicate was already most prevalent.

That desire… does not stem naturally from vulcan blood. That revelation warms the mother’s blood even as it chills the father.

Sarek does not voice what he is thinking. He doesn’t need to. His dread bleeds through into their shared mental space and Amanda knows very well that he is thinking _humans are psi-null._ How could a biologically vulcan child handle life without an open mental landscape? Was it even possible to live a fulfilling life without the embrace of the k’war’ma’khan?

“I certainly like to think so,” Amanda murmurs aloud. Properly chastised, Sarek apologizes mind to mind.

Then, chastised again by his own fear of the unknown, Sarek grinds out his every misgiving.

The child is healthy. The child’s _mind_ is healthy. Their family lives and that is all that matters. If the child is not capable of telepathy and is therefore incapable of joining the k’war’ma’khan, the minds of the people, then his life will indeed be more difficult: But that did not make it a life Sarek would be unwilling to share.

The child’s will is surprisingly strong, already bold enough to form the core of his living katra inside his tiny body. It was important to note that the child will be raised as a vulcan either way, raised among his father’s people and given education amongst them. There is no need to raise him in fear of what he might one day become. Psi-null or a telepath, this boy will be their son.

That thought, at least, Amanda approves of.

It was unproductive to delay further. Sarek invites his wife’s mind deeply into his own, and then reaches out to gather the child’s. It was time. The naming would give them proof one way or the other.

“S’chn T’gai Spock,” Sarek names him aloud, and Amanda’s approval only widens welcomingly. The identity solidifies inside their joined minds, and Spock settles contentedly into their family unit without any mishaps caused by his innate differences.

By our innate differences, Amanda corrects him. There is nothing “different” without something to compare it to, and Spock will always have one parent whose mind he resembles most.

Relief instantly floods the bonds between the three of them, and Sarek is chastised yet again to realize the relief is all his. He had not realized until that moment how much he had wished for their family bonds to be completed until there was the possibility that his mind alone would not be enough to do so.

Here was proof. S’chn T’gai Spock, son of Sarek, is a telepath.

Amanda hums in exhausted agreement. “Son of Sarek, son of Skon, son of Solkar,” she says, a flicker of good humor found in her reminder of formal Vulcan naming protocol. Sarek’s lips twitch in shared amusement. Their minds are still entwined even as the initial meld between them fades to one of less intensity.

“Son of Amanda, also,” Sarek reminds her. He places a human kiss on her crown, all that he can reach with his hands full. Sarek can feel both mother and son falling into meditative slumber, can feel himself quickly follow them deeper into the meld. “Sochya eh-dif,” he whispers reverently to her hair.

“Peace and long life,” Amanda repeats back to him. It is a sentiment meant for them all.

* * *

 

Captain George Kirk. Stardate 2233.

Starship USS-Kelvin, Klingon Space.

Georgia drops the PADD on the table with a groan, stretching backward in her seat. One hand comes up to rub at her eyes tiredly.

“Something bothering you, Captain?”

“No, of course not, Admiral. It’s merely my back, you see. It’s a bit sore, but I hear pregnancy does that to a person.”

The man on the vidscreen does not appear amused. “Back to the topic at hand. You can see from the reports I forwarded that your current pregnancy marks a turning point for the Federation. Your son will save millions.” Admiral Komack clears his throat. He does not appear discomfitted, but neither does he look entirely pleased to be talking to her about this. “And we cannot afford an incident jeopardizing that. You are are being unofficially - but also highly - encouraged to retreat to a private Starfleet maternity ward, on Earth, to await further orders.”

Georgia's voice goes flat and hard. "Are you relieving me of my ship, Admiral Komack?"

"I am not. Not officially. But you must see that this situation is delicate, and we cannot afford the blow-back if something happens to your son. The cat's out of the bag, Captain: The contents of that report are public knowledge: Hell, there's talk of making a holovid. It's only a matter of time before this gets back to the Klingons, or worse."

Translation into Kirkese: Get your ass in the house; You can’t take care of a kid.

Georgia’s hand hits the table as a fist. Gently, but only because she softens the blow at the last instant. She sits up straight and leans in toward the screen, a wide smile plastered on her cheeks.

Anyone familiar with sharks would recognize that smile.

“Of course, every mom wants her kid to be special. But I won’t be raising my children in a metaphorical vacuum, Admiral Komack, only a literal one, and I don’t believe in giving credit to a person before the event has actually taken place. There’s no proof that any of this will actually happen as stated, and my son will not be raised believing he has to live up to a hyped up science fiction novel.”

Admiral Komack’s nostrils flare. “I assure you that the data has been checked. There are minor details--"

“Minor details?” Georgia barks out a laugh. “Things so minor as to not have any actual difference in actuality, you mean.”

“Yes,” Komack snaps, and his eyes narrow in response to Kirk’s inordinate amount of sass. “I’m going to attribute your insubordinate behavior toward pregnancy hormones and reiterate: The Kelvin is to return to Earth, posthaste, where you will be relieved of duty - temporarily - until your son’s safety has been assured.”

“Then consider our mission complete, Admiral.” Georgia stands suddenly, leaning forward on the table to look Komack directly in the eye as he splutters, both of them angered and frustrated in turn. “My son is perfectly safe at home with his father. They’re even on Earth. My _daughter_ , on the other hand, is safe with me."

The Admiral looks appropriately shocked, and Georgia is taken by a wicked flare of satisfaction. She lowers her voice to a falsely pleasant drawl.

“Maybe she has a destiny, maybe she doesn’t, but my kid's future is not for you to decide, Admiral. It’s my decision to raise my kids however I want, not Starfleet’s and certainly not _yours_ , so let me tell you what is actually going to happen here, James Nathaniel Komack, Admiral General sir. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that lovely ‘advice’ telling me how to raise my own kids, and I’m going to head back to the bridge and do my job.”

Komack’s teeth grit. “Your child would be safer on Earth.”

Captain Georgia Kirk snorts dismissively. “Didn’t you read the report, Admiral? James Kirk is meant to be born in space.”

The USS Kelvin spends the next three months answering distress calls and emergency supply runs out near the Neutral Zone, and, in true Kirk fashion, the Captain spends the last week of her pregnancy in Romulan space, firmly outside the reaches of the Federation and rather calmly breaking intergalactic law: Mainly the law that says _stay out of Romulan space_.

Naturally, that is where James R. Kirk is born.

* * *

 

Amanda Grayson, Age 32. Stardate 2234.

“Spock, my son? Come speak with me in the yard, if you would.”

Less than eight and a half seconds later, Spock appears in the doorway. Spock could say the time delay to the third decimal point but Amanda knows better than to ask. He takes two steps down to the edge of the area designated as a ‘garden’ and then straightens his spine to military-grade attention, hands at the small of his back.

He greets her with all the pomp and gravitas a four year old could convey.

“Tonk’peh, Mother.”

Amanda smiles on the inside. Her son was the most obedient child she had ever seen. Spock’s natural curiosity had him at her side at the slightest excuse for interaction, pouring over her actions with a fine-toothed comb as if her every move was fascinating. He couldn’t know he made such an adorable shadow, but he must know he made a welcome one.

“Hello to you too, my son. Come closer. I need to borrow your talent for observation.”

This is vulcan-mother code for, “Hey, come taste these for me.”

As Spock walks within arm’s reach, Amanda plucks a pla-savas berry from the tree. Her hands are appropriately gloved to protect them from more than just the natural dangers of the local flora. A sash-savas went next into the basket she held. Spock knew his role was to wait patiently while his mother chose what he would eat, and then to pick through the basket with chopsticks.

Having collected a sample of each fruit within arm’s reach, it was time to put her plan into action. Amanda stands back somewhat dramatically, hands to hips and lips pursed in mild irritation, then drops the basket to the ground nearby with a sigh.

Spock takes the bait. “What irks you, Mother?”

Amanda turns back to him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “I am not tall enough to reach the globefruit for your father. Will you help me?”

“I could fetch a ladder,” Spock intones dutifully.

“Ah, but you wouldn’t be able to catch me when I fall. No, I suppose my plans for dessert will go unfulfilled tonight.”

The four year old reacts as most four year olds would to being told there would be no dessert.

“That situation would be less than ideal,” Spock assures her quickly, and Amanda has to hide a quick smile in her scarves. There is a decided pout warring for control of Spock’s face.

Spock’s brow quickly furrows in concentration. He takes in his mother’s height, how far she might safely reach up the side of the tree, and the height of the fruit she wished to pick. The equations going on in that head were practically visible.

“If you held me on your shoulders,” he begins slowly, staring up at the lowest branches. “I could pick them for you. Would four be enough for your meal plan?”

Two large globe fruit would be more than enough for the four of them. Amanda conveniently does not point that out.

“Oh, Spock,” she says, but she is far from displeased. “You haven’t let me pick you up in months.”

“For you, Mother, this would be no hardship,” Spock says earnestly, eyes wide and tone grave. A faint tinge of green has painted Spock’s cheeks. It grows into a deep emerald by the time Spock is finished speaking rapidly, the closest the little boy ever came to babbling. “The touch would facilitate your effort to obtain nourishment for our family, which is a noble venture that you have pursued tirelessly, and would therefore be well worth the effort I am willing to put forth. I would not deny you aid when you have asked it of me, Mother.”

“Look at me please, Spock.” Amanda waits until his chin goes up stubbornly and she could see him mulishly attempt to appear more refined than any four year old had any right to be. She smiles openly and holds open her arms. “Alright then. Come on.”

Spock relaxes under her onslaught. There’s only so much you can resist of a mother’s love.

They fill the bowl within minutes. Later, as Amanda peels and cuts each of the larger fruit into bite-sized pieces, Spock stares with morbid fascination at her skill with a knife. “Mother, I have an inquiry to make.”

“Ask away.”

“Why did you choose the savas dukal-yel-travek for the non-savory component of our evening meal? You implied it was for Father’s sake, but it is not the most nourishing of the domestic edibles that you grow.” Spock catches his teeth playing with his bottom lip and quickly smooths over his facial expression, but his hands remain tense on his thighs. “Neither does it have additional medicinal properties that I am aware of.”

There is, perhaps, the tiniest amount of apprehension in his tone.

A slow smile creeps across Amanda’s face. “Oh, Spock. It’s how I choose all of our meals in this household. It’s your father’s favorite.”

Amanda Grayson, wife of Sarek and mother of Spock, laughs outright at her son’s clear expression of abject shock.

* * *

 

James Kirk, Age 4. Stardate 2237.

On the first day of kindergarten, James Kirk skips cheerfully through the front door and immediately scans the crowd for an adult.

The intent - to avoid that adult with all the ferocity she could manage, and observe from a distance until learning whether or not candy could be tricked from said adult’s pockets - is thwarted almost immediately when the teacher sees her first.

Miss Caerns. Jim gulps down a mouthful of dread. Miss Caerns was the nicest, most attentive and thoughtful teacher in the whole school.

Jim hated her, and the feeling was mutual.

Jim may have also spilled strawberry milk on her jacket after a PTA meeting gone wrong, and then forgotten to tell her before she went to put it on. Once or twice. Additional candy was not in Jim’s future.

“James!” Miss Caerns herds Jim away from the back of the room, hands firm on sharp little shoulders. “Sit sit, we’re about to start. Ashley over there by the giant frog will be your buddy. Remember: Buddies stick together, so no exploring by yourself.”

The words make Jim’s hands clench in excitement. Her apprehension melts away and instantly her face flares supernova bright.

“Hey!” says Jim, wide smile pasted on her rosy cheeks as she sits, rocking the chair on its back two legs with the force of her enthusiasm. “I’m Jim. Wanna be friends?”

“Jim?” The other girl’s nose, non-sunburned, crinkles in distaste.

“Yeah, it’s short for James.” Jim dimples. “Ashley, right? Miss Caerns says you’re my seat buddy.”

Ashley does not dimple back. “James is a boy name,” she says dubiously.

“Ashley was a boys’ name, too, before the 21st Century,” Jim chimes in, suddenly way too excited to share. Plus, bonus, it was her favorite genre: History! Jim bounces around excitedly. “I’ve a book about it, look!”

Jim ducks in her sack for the hardcover History of Names volume 6E, brandishing it victoriously when it slips free of its confines. “See!"

Ashley Thomson, formerly and briefly Jim’s favorite person in the world who wasn’t fictional, (although that status lasted less than the two minutes they’ve been seated together,) gives Jim a patented Stuck Up™ sniff.

“Father says you’re not a proper girl.”

Respect instantly lost.

Jim’s cheeks go beet red. “Tell him thanks, I guess, but I bet he isn’t either.”

The joke did not have the intended reaction. Fury was not a good look on a five year old, but Ashley does not burst into hysterical tears and rail on about Jim had wronged her, blah blah blah. No, Ashley does one worse. She goes straight to Miss Caerns.

“James just called my dad a little girl.”

“I did not!”

And then Miss Caerns turns toward Jim with a look so cold, so unsurprised, Jim just knows the battle is lost long before it could be fought. That day was the first of Jim’s ‘outbursts’ to take place on school grounds, but after being betrayed within five minutes of being “best friends”, it was certainly far from the last.

Miss Caerns rubs Jim’s hair affectionately. She frowns when the little girl doesn’t shriek and pull away; Jim only sighs and looks out the window, resigned to wait for time out to officially end. “Come on, Jimmy. You like school. What’s going on here?”

Jim stands and grabs her bag from the floor. “I dunno. Guess school just doesn’t like me.”

* * *

 

Spock of Vulcan, Age 6. Stardate 2236.

Delta Vega was warmer than Sarek’s demeanor at that moment.

If there were one thing about Sarek that could never be denied, it would be his presence. He gestured toward the garden with one hand, and Sybok, previously preparing vegetation to assist Mother with dinner, obeyed the silent command to retreat. That left Spock alone with Father in the kitchen.

Spock instantly wished Sybok had remained.

“You will explain your actions,” Sarek demanded.

Spock did not wipe away the blood dripping from his split lip. He’d stopped sucking on it just before his father had walked into the room, and now he kept his expression as neutral as possible so that the pain would not be visible. Be Vulcan, he insisted of himself, almost pleading. Be strong and secure in the knowledge that you surpass these t’var’eth, the undisciplined whelps.

“Words were exchanged. I protested their validity.”

Sarek’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You assaulted your classmates because they spoke words you did not want to hear.”

“I besieged them in protest of their remarks. Their words were falsehoods and slander, and were therefore uncalled for.”

“Violence was also uncalled for.”

The rebuke hit home. Spock closed his eyes and nodded sharply. “Yes, Father. I shall endeavor so that it will not happen again.”

“Yes, you shall.” Sarek stared at the miserable swoop to Spock’s eyebrows. The child’s attempt to wipe all emotion away had instead frozen distress on his face. Sarek did not sigh or make any indication of a change in demeanor, but his voice was no longer an order when he said, “You are distressed beyond my understanding of the situation. I would have your thoughts, my son. It has been too long.”

Spock gathered himself valiantly, expression once again clear. “You will not find aksh’iz inside my mind, Father. I am not ashamed because I did not act illogically.”

Sarek pulled back minutely, surprised at the admission. “What would I find in your mind?”

“You may look as you see fit, Father. I would not deny you.”

Permission granted, and in an effort to avoid further misunderstandings, Sarek placed one hand on his son’s face. It wasn’t a proper meld, nor did either of them want it to be. Sarek would merely use the physical contact and proximity to Spock’s psi-points to be able to explore their family bond from the inside. What he found there did - and did not - surprise him.

There was no self pity, no fear, and no shame. Spock had not lied. There was anger aplenty - anger at the situation and at xenophobic classmates, at her own illogical reactions… and underneath that anger was a deep and abiding loyalty to her mother, the knowledge that Lady Amanda Grayson deserved respect and that Spock would be the one to give it to her even when outnumbered and cornered by common bullies, logic be damned.

Sarek paused.

Spock was angry at herself.

It was then that Sarek considered for the first time that the tension within Spock was not an innate failing or a product of mismatched genetics.

* * *

 

Christopher Pike. Stardate 2239.

“No no no, no! You can’t make me,” Jim snapped, chubby cheeks red and splotchy from the epic fit she was in the middle of throwing.

“Jimmy,” Pike began, and winced at the inhuman decibel of Jim’s next screech.

“No, don’t even. You think some mean old guy in the government is gonna make me want to jump up and be best friends with the alien of their choosing? No. Way. In. Kansas, Captain Dorothy.”

“There isn’t a set expectation,” Pike hedged, then changed tactics when Jim’s body language snapped from Toddler Tantrum toward I Intend To Do You Harm. “This Spock kid isn’t so bad. His mom’s Starfleet, I used to go to school with her back in the day. I’m sure you’d like her. And nothing’s set in stone just yet, this is just a proposal. Ambassador Selek wants to discuss the proposal over lunch this weekend. His treat.”

Jim did her favorite thing: She rolled her eyes in three parts, as if a swift rotation was too fast to truly get her ire across.

“Jimmy,” Pike scolded. The kid had more attitude every time he saw her. “Listen, you’re not required to enjoy this, but you are required to at least sit down, shut up, and listen to his proposal before you refuse it. The guy just wants to meet you and have lunch before he has to ship off back to Vulcan.”

Jim’s eyes flashed dangerously. Mutiny looked right at home with those pigtails.

“He’s a vulcan? You want me to have lunch with a vulcan.” Too-sharp blue eyes narrowed ominously. “You said the kid’s mom’s in Starfleet. There’s no vulcans in Starfleet, everyone knows that.”

“Amanda’s human,” Pike agreed readily, “but her son is the one you’re supposed to become friends with. Just think of it like a foreign exchange student and you’ll do fine.”

“I’m not nervous!” Jim shrieked. “This isn’t me being a kid about not getting my own room for a couple more years. No one asked me before inviting him here and I don’t care whose son he is, I don’t want him in my room!”

Pike rubbed his eyes wearily. “Jim. Calm your butt down and get your head in the game. Unless you’re admitting to some pretty strong xenophobic tendencies, I don’t see what the big problem is. It’s lunch with a foreigner and then showing the new kid around school. Just suck it up and everything will be fine.”

“Chis. Uncle Chris,” Jim corrected swiftly, sensing Pike had run out of patience. “They’re vulcans. Vulcans are vegetarians, Uncle Chris. _I’d rather die_.”

Pike’s eyes narrowed. “That can be arranged.”

Jim hissed, somewhat resembling a cartoon cat, and then added under her breath, “I probably would, too. I actually liked salad before I became allergic to fricken lettuce.”

Chris rolled his eyes (although the kid did have a point: Who was allergic to iceberg?), then snapped on his best Obey Me, I’m Dad glare. It probably would have worked better if he wasn’t just the family friend who did tech support on a pretty starship. He amped up the Dad Glare just in case. “Stop being dramatic. The Ambassador ordered you a bacon cheddar cheeseburger - no lettuce, tomato, or pickles - with cornbread, steak fries, and potato salad minus the carrots, and peanut butter and celery on the side. Jim, he’s got you pegged.”

Jim’s eyes go comically wide and Chris had to smother a wave of fondness for the brat. Too cute for her own good, which luckily made chastising her easier: Someone’s gotta take the kid down a peg while she’s young and possibly-hopefully still malleable.

They’re doomed to lose all progress once Jim hits her teens anyway but that’s just the joy of parenthood talking.

“Now that that’s settled, I am not going to say this again. Ambassador Selek not only researched your every allergy, food and otherwise, he even hand-picked a real chef to cook for you. Even your strawberry milk’s going to be hand-made with simple syrup.” He leaned in over the table between them. “No synthesizers, no strange doctors asking why your face turned purple, no parents for a whole weekend, and you get great food for free. There’s absolutely nothing to complain about, so. Suck it up and stop complaining.”

The rollercoaster of elation and surprise on Jim’s face-- so promising and so very, very brief --careened toward denial and hard-headedness at the last instant.

“You can’t make me.”

“Jim.”  A hint of true exasperation came through at last. “Come on, you love my ship.”

That was apparently the right thing to say. A spike of excitement literally bounced Jim to her feet. “I get to go on--”

“Yes, hush, you do-- you will, if you go to this goddamn meeting with the Ambassador, you can spend the full weekend on board.”

Jim paused halfway around his desk, interrupting herself from an impromptu hug-fest.

“No babysitter?”

Chris snorted. “Not a chance. The Ambassador wanted a tour of the Sol system, and you’re allowed along for the ride at his discretion. Three days in space, and he’s in charge.”

“Fine, but no bedtime,” she insisted, and Chris’ will broke: He gave into the urge and rolled his eyes.

“Get out of my office, kid.”

Jim finished her aborted motion - a quick squeeze and a chirped, “Thank you!” was all the reward Pike would receive for his efforts.

“Shoo,” Pike groaned, and Jim grinned wider.

“Yessir!”

Elated whoops could be heard all the way outside in the courtyard. Captain Pike sucked in a deep breath through his teeth and went back to writing his reports. He glanced at the text already on the screen and steeled himself to flick on the voice-to-text function. 

"The data I requested does not conflict with the projected supply models previously generated for the colony: This is the heart of the problem. Not a single report deviates from the standard model of consumption. On a colony of 8000 human individuals, this kind of data is both startling and worrisome.

"I believe that the reports are being falsified-- but the purpose for such an act is unclear. Is it in order to get a message out? If so, the message is clear: Nothing we know about what is happening on Tarsus IV can be believed."

* * *

  

James T. Kirk, Age 6. Stardate 2239.

Starship USS Tiberius, Sol System.

The lunch went well. The Ambassador didn’t ask any weird questions and Jim didn’t have to do anything except stuff her face to get the man to smile-- honest to god, the Vulcan Ambassador smiled at her for acting like a rabid squirrel at a nut factory, how rad was that? The whole deal was awesome in a kind of, ‘I don’t really care what you think,’ sort of way. Because she didn’t care about the guy. This was a free meal and a fun weekend and meant absolutely nothing.

If Jim were being honest, which she totally wasn’t, then that smile alone would have won her over.

Instead, she played around with her food and tried to look as uninterested as possible, which was fricken impossible when the man was being so fricken accomodating. And the food was so _fricken_ good.

“Would you like some more strawberry milk?” the Ambassador asked, and Jim sniffed, “Maybe.”

He filled the glass nearly to the brim. In that moment, she loved and hated him in equal measure.

 _I’m not supposed to like you!_ she raged, and then pointedly did not examine her nonexistent motives for wanting to dislike him in the first place.

“So, um. Sir. Why’d you want to see me?” Jim asked into her fricken delicious potato salad. She hated him even more because he offered her ants on a log before answering the question.

Being fed ants on a log, by a _vulcan_. Come _on_.

The Ambassador met her eyes frankly and said, point blank, “I disapprove of the way in which your life is being decided without your input.”

Jim stared at him. No one ever accused a vulcan of being subtle.

“I feel it is unjust, unfair, and very nearly cruel, but I do not believe that my feelings on the matter will prevent anyone from trying to manipulate you. You are going to be put into a very tenuous position very soon, and I wanted to offer you my assistance.”

Oh boy. Jim blinked in surprise, mouth open. What question to ask first: How ‘tenuous’ or what kind of ‘assistance’? She settled for, “I don’t want anything you might be offering, sir.”

Cookies somehow spontaneously generated on the table. The Ambassador offered her one. Jim bit into it balefully, muttering, “Traitor,” toward her loudly appreciative digestive system. The Ambassador wisely refrained from comment.

He said, “I suspect you already know about the pinch in the fabric of your universe.”

The Ambassador did not say, “You were caught sneaking into the official records often enough,” or, “Those records were sealed for a reason,” but the blatant change in subject did not go unnoticed. Jim almost rolled her eyes in annoyance. She almost, almost, brushed him off with a, “Yeah, duh, first graders know that shit.” She almost made some stupid flippant remark about Pike’s password being his dog’s name, but she didn’t.

“My universe,” Jim repeated slowly.

Because… _what_?

Her eyes scaled up the table from her own plate toward his plate, then up his torso to the Ambassador’s face. She stared at his ears for the first time since coming aboard the Enterprise. Connections were working rapid fire behind her eyes.

“Meaning you’re from one of the others. You fell through the gap.”

Another genuinely fond smile took over the man’s face.

“You were smart in my world, too. Captain James Kirk would have been glad to know of it.”

Jim’s hand froze with her fork an inch off the plate. “You’re Spock,” she realized all at once, and the sudden certainty she felt at the knowledge rushed up her spine in a single shockwave.

Spock didn’t deny it.

“Oh my god.” Jim didn’t know why she whispered, but she also didn’t know why the same guy her government wants her to live with is suddenly warning her out of the blue about meeting himself. Or. Whatever he’s doing. He still hadn’t actually said. “What do you want?”

The vulcan gave her a piercing look. Jim resisted the sudden desire to fidget or, failing that, run very far in the opposite direction. She stared right back at him.

Spock nodded very slowly.

“What I want is for you to be unaffected by my appearance in your life. I would prefer you to live your entire life without interference from any of the other worlds.” Spock met her eyes, his filled with resigned certainty. “Neither of those wishes of mine will come true. Instead, I wish to minimize the damage my existence has caused you.”

“That’s...harsh.”

Spock’s nod was solemn.

“None of our universes were meant to mingle in this manner. Now that they have, we do not know how to stop them from falling further together. The result would be undesirable. It is my hope that you, Miss Kirk, will, if forearmed against the future, be able to find a favorable solution to this problem some day.”

Jim snorted.

“Well that’s nice. And stupid.” Once the words were out, Jim couldn’t take them back-- and she didn’t really want to anyway. “Just ‘cause I share his name and maybe his life does not mean I will be like him. I’m not him.”

Spock said, “You are right, of course,” which did absolutely nothing to lighten Jim’s glower. “Whether or not I am capable of respecting your desire to be left alone is a moot point. The others who know about Captain James Kirk will not, and so it is my intent to aid you.”

Jim allowed her fork to fall back to the plate. She picked it up again, then her face crumpled and she shoved fork and plate away hard enough to knock them into her milk cup. The glass was empty - when did that happen? - and luckily did not break when it hit the tablecloth.

“I hate this! This is so, so not fair!”

Jim stormed over to the door and then back again, skirting the table and the man still seated there. She threw herself back into her chair with a distressed groan.

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this so much. You’ll fix it, right? Fix me?” Jim glanced up. “You know what’s gonna happen to me so you know how to make sure it doesn’t, and then I won’t have to do what they want because I won’t be the person they want me to be.”

Spock looked down at the table. Was that...remorse? No way, vulcans don’t feel like that. But when he shook his head there was sadness so blatant that she couldn’t help but stare. “No, I am not capable of saving you. However, there is a great quantity of material that I believe you should know. I wish to tell you all of it. Or, if you are amenable, show you in the Vulcan way.”

‘Well I’m not,” Jim snapped reflexively.

And then, in the next breath, “What is it?”

Spock’s face grew weary all of a sudden. “It is a terrible burden to bear, Miss Kirk. I would engage you in a mental embrace to impart the knowledge that I feel would benefit you in this life. It would be both illuminating and brief, but neither of us would have any privacy during the process. Without shielding, the act I intend would show me every aspect of your mind, and show you every aspect of mine in return.”

Jim blanched. “You’re trying to copy my brain?”

“Not at all. The details of your memories would be sacred, held only to you. I only warn you that privacy is relative in an encounter such as this. I feel that, when minds touch with any frequency, secrets are impossible to keep.”

Jim fidgeted.

“No secrets at all?”

“None.” Spock paused. “That is a simplification, of course.”

“....Can I at least have a moment to think about it?”

“Of course. We have the whole weekend together aboard this ship. You are also welcome to deny my offer now and then request it in the future if you change your mind. I will always come to you if you have need of me.”

“Because you want to read the story of my life.”

“No, not quite. I want to read to you the story of mine.”

Jim didn’t know what to say to that. She ate her celery, then she ate the additional fries Spock sneaked onto her plate. She squirmed in her seat. _What was wrong with him?_ she asked herself. There’s no way vulcans are allowed to be this nice.

After apple pie, Jim decided to keep all misgivings to herself. There was no way on Terra she was going to give up the chance for two more days of food like that. She said, “So uh. What do you do around here?”

They spent the next two days having fun.

“Why don’t you swim?” Jim asked during her required physical therapy session - broken bones don’t heal well in space, if they healed at all, and a tree climbing adventure last month had left its mark - while Spock coached Jim from the sidelines.

“I come from a desert planet. I admit to never being comfortable around so much water.”

“So you’re a cat.”

“I, too, had noticed a certain resemblance in that regard.”

Jim laughed. She splashed him half an hour later - on accident, truth be told - but Spock didn’t even get mad. He looked her dead in the eye and said, voice drier than Vulcan and face more deadpan than a bedpan-- “Hiss.”

Jim laughed hard enough that even her wrists hurt from shaking so much, and Spock had to drag her out so that she wouldn't drown.

Okay, so. Maybe a book about this guy’s life wouldn’t be so boring.

They got good at talking. Jim got good at listening. Spock got good at braiding hair and secretly bringing her real turkey sandwiches for midnight snacks, and not even the mayo tasted like replicator.

Nothing tasted like replicator. Not even the toothpaste. Not even the _replicator_.

By the end of the weekend, Jim was positive she had no secrets left.

And still, the meld was unlike everything she had ever expected.

.

Jim was sat on the edge of a deep comfy couch while Spock knelt in front of her. Spock’s hand was no longer on her face, but, in the interest of keeping her lunch, Jim did not open her eyes quite yet.

“I apologize for any discomfort,” Spock intoned softly. Jim winced, blinked her eyes open, then shut them again when the light proved too strong for her head. “Computer, lights to sixty percent.”

Jim couldn’t even find the words to thank him. “You uh. Miss him,” she whispered, and then cursed herself for speaking at all.

“I suspect I always will.”

“A lot,” Jim qualified. Her eyes started watering without her permission. “So… so much.”

Spock squeezed her shoulder in an offer of comfort.

Jim fidgeted. It was the will of every six year old child to be able to cry on demand and then, after having succeeded in suckering the adult out of cake and ice cream for lunch, turn the waterworks off again. Jim had never been good at that last part. The flood of a lifetime was fast approaching, wailing and flailing included, and Jim knew, she just knew she wouldn’t ever be able to turn it off again. Because this guy… because Spock really, really… really missed him.

“Yeah,” Jim whispered.

“My opinion of you would not suffer if you were to share in my grief, Miss Kirk.”

“I’m… I’m sorry… for…”

God, she was pathetic. She couldn’t even get the words out. ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ just didn’t seem to cut it, not when Spock still hurt this bad, and she - Jim! But not his Captain - was the cause. Jim had hurt him. Because Jim had to know the truth and Spock felt he had to bring the news to her. Because Jim was alive at all, Spock had to relive the most painful moments of his life.

Being young, rebuked and estranged from Father for sixteen years. Losing Mother in a shuttle accident in Paris, then Brother to his beliefs and his own ample heart. Two and a half years of Kohlinar, the ritual attempt to deny all emotion; and then being denied in turn, cast out by the very Kohlinar masters he had gone to for help.

The Nexus. 

Returning to Starfleet and wishing. Desperately wishing he could have the chance to say goodbye. 

The Borg, the Romulan Star Empire wars: Losing the Captain again as he saved Picard’s life, and years later, losing Captain Picard too.

Spock lost everyone until he was the only member of the _Enterprise_ crew left. 

But even all of that, all of that regret and loss failed to compare to the sound of a planet dying right in front of his eyes. It was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ compared to being responsible for the loss of Romulus and, later, the loss of Vulcan, too. So much loss, and not nearly enough grieving to stifle the blow.

Spock stood abruptly and startled Jim out of her thoughts, and then he sat next to Jim on the couch. He shifted until they faced each other, removing her fists from her lap and gently coaxing her nails out of her palms. Jim sniffed pitiably. Spock cleared his throat.

“It was not often that I was able to hold my Captain in my arms when he needed it. If you would indulge me now, I would…”

Spock allowed the sentence to fall away. Jim had launched herself into his chest without a second thought, eyes shut, arms tight around his rib cage. Spock placed his hand over her shoulder blades, the palm flat against her spine. As he held her, he expressed calm and peace through the places in which their skin touched; in particular, he relayed to her a memory he cherished deeply.

 _It appears that humans have an endless capacity to love,_ he had once said. The setting was immaterial. His companion was not.

_You know, Vulcans do too._

_Are you perhaps mistaking ‘loyalty’ for ‘love’, Captain?_

_Am I?_

_As you say, Captain._

The tension drained out of Jim's shoulders. It had left her shaking and a bit weak but so very warm, as if she were forged anew by their brief communion. The two of them had spent only ten minutes with their minds synced, touching as unobtrusively as possible (i.e. Not very unobtrusively at all. Perhaps, in fact, exactly the opposite of ‘unobtrusive’.), and yet that had been more than enough time for Jim to place Spock irrevocably in the category of The Good Guys. The boundless nature of Jim’s trust staggered Spock, she could tell, but that didn’t mean she was going to change her opinion. Jim hugged Spock all the harder for it.

Then Spock’s heart did something kind of embarrassing. It began to pound wildly, elated, and the resultant squeeze he gave made Jim’s shoulders ache pleasantly at the same time. Jim pulled back a bit to investigate. Her tiny hand trembled against Spock’s side just below the rib cage.

“I can feel your heartbeat also,” Spock remarked softly, not wanting to break the moment.

All Jim said was, “Wow.”

Spock could tell she meant it.


	2. How we came to trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated to the new chapter. 
> 
> Jim meets Spock and everything goes wrong, but one thing's for sure: This is their life, and no government is going to tell them how and when they have to bond. 
> 
> Or, the part where Jim proposes and Vulcans are infuriating. Except T'Pau. 
> 
> Pronouns used in each section reflect the views of the current narrator.

Captain George Kirk. Stardate 2242.

Georgia was not the practical half of her marriage. When asked, she’d gladly admit to not being the practical side of anything. That was why she currently sat at a table just inside an ice cream parlor on the Wharf, waiting for aliens to show up and take over her house. She grinned wryly. When her father had said she’d lose the farm some day, Tiberius had probably been thinking ‘flood’ or ‘fire’, not ‘Starfleet political interference’.

There was no bell chime to announce their arrival but there honestly did not need to be. The presence of two vulcan males in full formal regalia, one adult and therefore unmistakable, swept through the building like a wave, and Georgia was pleased to note that the bulk of the attention was positive as she stood and beckoned them over.

“How,” she said, and saluted in the way of her husband’s ancestors: Palm held flat by her head, fingers together and facing forward. It was more diplomatic than waiting for a handshake that would never happen. “That means ‘hello’ in an extinct Terran dialect. Welcome to Earth.”

Two identical vulcan salutes were returned, similar to hers except for the part between middle and ring fingers. “Greetings, Captain Georgia Kirk of the USS Kelvin. I am Sarek, son of Skon, Ambassador to Earth and father of Spock, who stands beside me.”

“Greetings,” Spock repeated, and Georgia had to beat a smile into submission. The two of them were adorable.

“Again, welcome. Before we continue this little meet and greet, I’ve got to ask: Have either of you tried ice cream?” At the faintly shocked look the vulcans gave them, Georgia’s grin overtook her attempted gravitas. “Thought not. This place uses honey and goat’s cream, and I’ve printed out a list of the ingredients and what plants and animals they come from: I’ve shortened the flavors list to just what the database says vulcans are capable of digesting comfortably, and there’s not a lick of processed sugar in the joint. If it suits you, I’d like to buy you your first scoops.”

The list was handed over and Sarek read it in seconds. “Your research appears thorough. I myself have tried the confection before at my wife’s insistence. I found it palatable.”

Palatable. That probably meant ‘oh hell yeah’ in vulcan-speak. Georgia grinned. “Good. And you, Spock?”

Young Spock’s eyes go wide. “I have not had the opportunity,” he intoned softly, glancing up at his father for reassurance. The man’s hand set down briefly on Spock’s head, and when it lifted Spock’s expression was somehow both absolutely blank and fantastically radiant at the same time. “Of the three flavors listed as being acceptable to a public setting,” and Georgia had to do a double-take, because that meant that one of the four was _not_ suitable to a public setting, “I have no particular preference.”

Sarek nodded solemnly. "Then we shall take you up on your offer, Captain Georgia Kirk. My daughter would prefer two scoops of ice cream." A little hand tugged at Sarek's sleeve, and he immediately capitulated, face still stone-wall blank. "Correction: Three scoops. All but the chocolate."

A wide and slow smile burst across Georgia’s face. She declared, “You two are adorable,” and scurried off to buy them all matching trios. The pair was still regarding her with confusion when she returned.

Halfway into devouring her dessert, a process that took no time at all when enacted by a Kirk whose sweet tooth apocrypha was legendary, Georgia took a moment to examine the pair sitting across from her. Sarek was as regal and dignified as ever, but Spock was nearly as far into his - her? - dessert as she was...which brought up an entirely different question. Georgia straightened in her seat.

“Apologies if this is invasive, but I’d like to ask a personal question for clarification purposes,” she began, and congratulated herself on sounding absolutely diplomatic when all she really wanted to do was snoop. Sarek gave a nod so she continued. “Earlier, you called Spock your daughter. Is this correct?”

“It is not how the bulk of the universe sees her. I, however, do.”

“And you, Spock? How do you see yourself?”

Spock glanced up from her bowl-- and Georgia could see it now, the way the kid had a spark and an angle in her eyes that said, _yeah, even if I have to prove it._ “Your assumption is correct, Captain Kirk. However, I am biologically male.”

“But mentally female.” Both vulcans blinked slowly, a sure sign of absolute surprise. Score one to Kirk. “Is that… typical among vulcans?”

“Spock is not typical in any sense of the word,” remarked Sarek blandly, and Georgia downright grinned: Papa Bear had come straight to the fore, and Baby Bear sat up straighter under the praise.

“Mm, you are certainly right about that. I can see it, there’s something different about you, Spock.”

“I am half-vulcan,” she intoned, and Georgia actually laughed.

“I meant different in another way. You remind me of my daughter, actually. You’d probably get along.”

Sarek nodded solemnly. “It is my hope that our daughters will, given time, form a mutually satisfactory acquaintanceship,” he interjected, and in that one moment he steered the conversation toward the topic it was meant to be on: Their children and this ridiculous bid for their future. “Am I to understand that your lone presence here indicates, as they say, ‘willful insubordination’?”

Georgia plastered on her most innocent smile. “I’m here because I’m trying to cooperate.”

“And yet you chose to come alone. Where is your daughter, Captain Kirk?”

The man was very blunt and, frankly, Georgia wanted to give him the same courtesy. She dropped the innocent act.

“As you well know, Ambassador, we, as parents, have a duty to protect our children, and I take this responsibility very seriously. My job gave me orders to welcome you into my home and, to be fairly honest, I have no problem with that. Both you and your daughter, and your wife and son, are welcome to stay in my house for as long as you remain civil and respectful toward the way my husband and I live our lives.

"However, that is exactly where I foresee you and I butting heads. Jimmy doesn’t like it when people meddle in her life, and, let’s be honest here, there's no way I'm going to force this on her.”

Sarek’s head tilted one centimeter to the left. “Jimmy being James, your daughter.”

“Yeah. She’ll be staying with my brother for the next few years. Your family is welcome to my home and my planet but, if I have my way, and don’t mistake me, I will, you won’t be meeting Jim till she’s out of high school. No disrespect meant, Ambassador.”

Sarek nodded slowly, surprising Georgia enough to stop her tirade. “Your adamance in this matter has been noted. However, if I might suggest a compromise?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Your daughter is nine years old. By Terran standards, my daughter is twelve. As eleven years is traditional for the coming of age ceremony on my planet, I would not find it difficult to delay their relations until that time has come for James.”

Georgia found herself grinning-- in the charming way too, not the more typical method that included a thinly concealed threat. “Two years without argument. I see. And what happens if I still don’t like it in two years? Or if our respective employers don’t want to wait?”

A flicker of amusement went across Sarek’s face, just long enough to be glimpsed before it disappeared. “Assuming that James has not changed her mind in the meantime,” he began slowly, painfully aware that that was an unlikely prospect, “then you and I, and our daughters, shall come to a mutually agreeable arrangement together. We are a long-lived species, Captain. Patience is not hard to come by for us.”

Georgia snorted, half amused and the rest contemplative. “I’m willing to buy that you can get the VSA off my back for a few years, but that doesn’t change the end-game situation. If I accept now, what happens in two years?”

Sarek raised a single eyebrow. “High school, Captain Kirk. Six years at a private institution of your choosing, attended by both of our children, and-- and I believe this will be particularly of concern for you --none of the Terran Starfleet Admiralty shall be there.”

That shocked a bark of laughter out of her. “Alright, I see you’ve done your research. You win this round, Ambassador, I agree to those terms: Two years no question, and we'll talk of schooling afterward.” She pulled a lanyard out of her pocket with several passcards and an old-fashioned key ring, and set them all on the table between them. “Here’s the keys to everything I own, labeled and GPS’d for your convenience.”

Spock, who had been watching them with wide-eyed fascination, rejoined the conversation with a decisive nod.

“You are not returning to the residence with us,” she stated calmly, as if it were perfectly natural for someone to give their house away to visiting dignitaries. Who knew, maybe on Vulcan it was.

Georgia smiled down at the kid. She resisted ruffling the little vulcan’s hair and causing a diplomatic incident. “Nope. My husband and son will get you situated, but I’m needed elsewhere,” she said, and Spock gave another solemn nod.

“I agree. From what data I have gathered on your exploits, and that of your genetic and marital relatives, the Kirks are drawn to a particular style of life that cannot be cultivated planetside.”

For the third time in just a few short minutes, Georgia laughed aloud.

“I like you, kid. I’ll see if I can convince Jimmy to give you a chance. In the meantime, try to enjoy Earth. It’s only two years, right?”

* * *

 

Spock, Age 14. Stardate 2244.

Two years and three months to the day had passed since then. Spock entered the hospital ward from the eastern entrance, eyes at once bound to the figure of a young human teenager pacing the length of the desk. _Jim_ , she thought fondly, and savored the name in the privacy of her own mind.

They had met only once before but the irreverent experience was a highlight in Spock’s life. The attendant had called, "James Tiberius Kirk and S’chn T’gai Spock, Exam Room 3," and James had surprised them all when she had grabbed Spock’s arm on the way into the room, stopping their forward progress by the sheer audacity of touching a telepath with bare skin.

Spock had not pulled away.

“Hey,” Kirk had said, bright eyes curious on Spock’s face. Her lively mind had shone with equal parts excitement and thirst for knowledge. “If _you_ call me James, we’ll be having words. Angry ones.” Her grin had pulled at her cheeks in an unseemly display, wicked playfulness flaring to the surface of her thoughts. “Call me Jim.”

The request had not been an unusual one among humans. ‘Nicknames’ were given almost indiscriminately amongst humankind. Spock had conceded the point: Their relations were meant to be informal, and beginning as such would only make the subsequent visits more palatable for the human.

On an unrelated note, Mother’s warning to ‘treat James right’ still rang in her ears.

“As you wish. Jim.”

Jim had blinked rapidly, obviously surprised, but rallied with another brilliant smile. “Wow. You don’t look like him at all.”

Spock had blinked once. “Whose appearance was I meant to resemble?”

“You’d know if you knew him.” Jim had paused, expression muting itself as her emotions flared with longing, still vibrant against Spock’s forearm but a little bittersweet. “You don’t.”

Spock had not known how to reply to that. Jim’s hand had remained on Spock’s arm and the attendant had stared at them for another 6.4 seconds before Spock’s chin tilted to the side, indicating the exam room. Then Jim’s hand slid away, and she slipped inside. Spock had followed sedately.

That appointment was meant to confirm their minds’ compatibility. Spock no longer had any doubts.

Back in the present, Spock approached Jim as the human paced rapidly alongside the nurse’s station. She appeared to be highly agitated, and they were close enough that Spock could see Jim’s eyelashes before she glanced up and their eyes met.

“Tell me you know what’s going on,” Jim snapped, rounding on Spock with her hands fisted at her sides. Spock’s pleasure at seeing her did not diminish due to her anger. “Because I sure as hell don’t, and absolutely no one will tell me what’s actually happening here.”

Spock’s eyebrows drew together, a thrill of violence lighting up the half-vulcan’s spine: Fascinating, how quickly she had grown protective, although now was not the time to dwell on that. “You were not briefed on the situation?”

“Yeah no, I got that memo. The stars say you and I have got this epic bromance going in a different world, so the bigwigs want us to be pen pals. Right? _Great_. See, what gets me is this: No one told me being pen pals would involve our brains having sex.” Jim’s hands went up into her hair, squeezing handfuls painfully. “And now no one will tell me what this brain sex dealio even does!”

Spock was no longer actively listening to her tirade. A curious blankness had overtaken the half-vulcan’s mind and slowly, glacially slow, it filled with rage.

Their association - the apparently legendary partnership between James of Terra and Spock of Vulcan - was public knowledge. Indeed, it was purported to be the most anticipated union of the century, reviled as the future crowning glory of the United Federation of Planets, and in the six years since the official acknowledgement was broadcast to every major sentient species in Alpha and Beta Quadrant, fully half of the Milky Way Galaxy had been informed of their association. During that time, Spock had held to patience and decorum at every turn, forcefully embodied the ideal image of a child of respected Vulcan diplomats in both thought and deed, and, in great secret, she had clutched desperately to the knowledge that one day, hopefully quite soon, she and Jim would be inseparable. 

And yet no one had told Jim. Even the Klingons had an opinion on their union, and  _Jim_ was still the last to know.

Being appalled was a state of being Spock had gotten used to in the years she had spent living among humankind, but this? The violation alone was enough to settle a hard ball of pure hate low in the pit of Spock's stomach, and the worst part was that she couldn't even blame the 'oversight' on cultural differences or xenocentric gaps in Terran knowledge. This was a Vulcan matter, and thus the blame fell entirely on all vulcans involved. 

It took Spock 11.7 seconds to calm down enough to formulate a coherent reply, and even then her voice shook with multiple suppressed emotions. “It would have been a permanent mental bridge between our minds,” she managed at last, and was proud at how calm she sounded when compared to how cheated she felt. 

Jim’s mouth repeated the words _would have been_ , and Spock gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement.

“Do not be concerned by the details. It is not a link I am willing to create without explicit permission and your _informed_ consent.” The words picked up some heat throughout that sentence, ending with a clearly irate snap. “Consent, which should have been confirmed before our previous mental congress.”

“Hah, fat chance of that. ‘Informed’ consent, my pasty white butt! You can’t even research Vulcan telepathic bonds: Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Before Spock could disagree - "I have access to the relevant records and would have _gladly_ shared them with you." - the door to the conference room suddenly swung open. An imposing figure stood there, dressed in formal vulcan robes and ostentatious human jewelry, and watched them coolly from the doorway in a move designed to intimidate. The person waited until both of them appeared to be listening, one of them more angrily than the other.

Spock took precisely one second to reel in rampant fury. It was one thing for a child to lash out, but a lady, the daughter of two ambassadors? No. Her poise must be poisonous in its exactness, for only then would she be in a position of power, and only then would Jim be able to receive justice.

Not a lick of turmoil could be allowed to the surface, and years of similar outbreaks assured her that her poise was complete and blank. Then she politely raised the ta’al. 

“Administrator V’Las of the Vulcan High Council,” she greeted aloud. It was more for Jim’s sake, in case the human did not recognize the government official.

The same official who had authorized their bonding without Jim's consent. Again, Spock was forced to restrain herself.

“Vuhlkansu Spock. James Kirk of Earth,” V’Las began, tones at once emotionless and expressing distaste. He didn’t return the salute. “These matters are best discussed in privacy.”

Jim's jaw snapped shut and her nostrils flared, and Spock had a brief worry that she might have to restrain Jim from violence as well. 

“So sorry, I didn’t know protesting my own kidnapping would be considered making a scene,” Jim grumbled under her breath. For the sake of interstellar diplomacy, everyone pretended not to hear that. It did not do her any favors concerning the Administrator’s mood, not that that had been Jim’s aim in the first place.

V’Las ducked back inside the room and they all took places around a conference table that could easily seat four times as many people, but even the six other individuals around the room made Spock uneasy. None of them looked pleased to be there, and none were human. Miss Kirk was, in fact, the only human individual Spock had seen since entering the ward. Isolationism did not bode well for the intent of this meeting.

Jim’s thoughts were apparently on the same wavelength. “...What, I don’t get a lawyer? What happened to fair representation?”

Spock, sat across from Jim, also voiced protest. “It does appear that this event is somewhat one-sided. Jim has also informed me that she had never consented to this endeavor, and therefore our efforts should rightly be nulled and void." She met V'Las eyes and held them while she drove the point home. "We have wronged her."

Silence fell like a broken glass. The Administrator stood at the head of the table, looking down its full length at the two teenagers. Although ‘disdain’ was a harsh term for the disapproval radiating across the room, V’Las did appear to be emoting only enough so that the ample dislike was evident.

He said, “The correct forms have been signed, dated, and legally filed in both Standard languages.”

Jim stood suddenly. “Woah, I never signed anything for you.”

“Correct,” the man agreed without inflection. “Your legal guardian did.”

Spock glanced at Jim. The noise she’d just made was furious but her face had gone undeniably pale. Slowly, mind racing and visibly fuming, Jim shook her head vehemently. “Bullshit, I haven’t seen Uncle Frank in a year. Prove it.”

V’Las’s eyes narrowed, but he gestured and another vulcan came forward to pass out PADDs to everyone at the table, which lit up as a file was opened remotely. It was indeed the correct consent forms, signed and dated two days ago by a _Doctor Franklin Kirk_.

Two days ago? Spock stared incredulously. It was impossible to have come up with and enacted this venture in only two days; Vulcan itself was over four days away. Either V’Las had prior knowledge to Doctor Kirk wanting to sign the paperwork, or this event had been planned in advance. Had the Doctor been coerced in some way? Before Spock could decide whether or not she should mention anything, Jim made another lost noise and derailed all of Spock’s ordered thoughts.

A wave of abject misery roiled across Jim’s body. Fascinating, the dichotomy between her defeated posture and her defiant facial expression, but Jim gathered herself quickly and hissed, “You guys are crazy. I will not follow this.”

“You have no choice,” V’Las dismissed calmly. Smugly? Enough satisfaction radiated off of the Minister to disgust Spock with his blatant emotionalism, as if the contents of his words were not enough. “You two are to share the quarters provided for you here on the ship. A healer is being fetched to confirm the presence of a mental link between the two of you, and will arrive in four days.” V’Las flicked at the screen of his PADD, bringing up another file. “I suggest that you familiarize yourself with what is expected of you in the meantime.”

The PADDs on the table lit up again. The next file was an itinerary, and only a few seconds later another strangled noise of protest rose in Jim’s throat. Spock felt a similar emotion rise up and burn just beneath where a human heart would lie. The meeting to inform them of their future - for this certainly was not the casual Socratic seminar Spock had expected, where they would be allowed to speak and ask questions freely - had begun rather poorly.

Predictably, it all went downhill rather quickly from there.

V’Las made demands and Jim swore violently. Spock felt no kinship with the woman but, likewise, felt even less kinship with a man who would accept a parent’s consent form over that of the child’s lack of consent. She remained quietly simply because, in the grand scheme of things, they were outnumbered and outflanked: She and Jim would not be winning this battle.

At no time did anyone answer any of Jim’s questions with anything other than severity and decorum. That being said, at no time during the meeting did any of Jim’s questions actually get answered to satisfaction.

“Can you at least tell me why this is all happening? I mean, why now? If you knew about this shit when we were born you could have just raised us both in a sterile apartment: I’d never complain about missing the sun if I’d never seen one, so why wait to trap me into this until you knew it’d back me into a corner?”

“There is a reasonable explanation for why events are being expedited.”

“...And?"

“You don’t have the clearance level to hear it.”

Jim screamed into her hair, held over her face with both hands. Spock did not find that answer satisfactory either.

Some time not very much later, when Jim stood with panic in her eyes and said, gasped, “I need to go to the bathroom,” Spock felt the strangest urge to follow her.

V’Las stood immobile at the head of the table. A human’s nostrils would have been flaring with anger. “A five minute recess, then.”

“And if I need a shit?” Jim snapped.

V’Las eyes pointedly did not narrow aggressively. The atmosphere in the room felt darker anyway. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Fine.”

“I, also, will take the time to use the facilities,” Spock said, and quickly stood to follow Jim’s flight path. They were not stopped. Jim raced down a hallway and past the closest bathroom. Spock caught up to her at the end of a hallway leading to the stairwell. “Jim?”

Jim skid to a halt and swung around, eyes wild. She looked terrified. And livid. “Don’t you dare stop me. Try and your ass will be meeting Timbuktu before sundown, I promise you.”

“Jim. There is no need to be hostile with me.”

“Right now? I have every need to be hostile with _everyone_. God, Pike never said vulcans were such dicks,” she hissed, but as the last comment seemed to be directed more toward the Ministers, Spock didn’t take offense.

Spock’s face went flat, voice quiet and non-combative. “I have no intention of stopping you. If you trust me to do so, I will help you. Consent,” Spock insisted when Jim looked skeptic, “is not consent without choice, and your uncle, while he is your legal guardian, cannot speak consent for you. There will be no bond without your will.”

Inexplicably, relief visibly overpowered the anger that had sustained Jim this long. Her hands still shook with fear and adrenaline, but the passion drained away to be replaced with resignation, and Spock could feel the exact moment when Jim’s sphere of trust widened just enough to accept Spock inside.

“I’m a minor, Spock. Legally. Frank can do whatever the fuck he wants, and he totally just did. My own blood sold me out.” Jim swallowed painfully, one step away from true hyperventilation. “It’ll happen. It doesn’t matter what I say, it will happen.”

“Miss Kirk, calm yourself.” Spock frowned when that had the opposite effect and Jim nearly clipped him with a flailed arm as she turned to brace against the wall. “Jim,” Spock tried again, “ _I_ do not consent to this.”

Jim’s face did some complicated rearranging that Spock couldn’t decipher. Ultimately, she looked hopeful. “Yeah? You sure looked gung ho in there.”

“I will not deny that I had initially acquiesced to this arrangement as no part of it offends me. However.” Spock emphasized the point by taking a single step forward, walking Jim backward a step in response. “I will not compromise your free will, whatever human law may say on the matter. Vulcan law is clear, and Surak’s teachings say the same thing. Your mind is safely your own, and I would fight for your right to keep it that way.”

Jim’s tongue flicked out to lick her lips. Then she nodded, sharply. “Okay, prove it then. Get me out of here.”

Spock went very still. “You wish to leave the hospital grounds unannounced.”

“Hide-and-seek is a pretty stupid game if you tell them where you’re going first, Spock.”

Spock found himself mirroring Jim’s earlier action: He licked his lips somewhat nervously. Then he nodded haltingly. “And the… legality of your escape, it does not concern you?”

Jim rolled her eyes. “All I’ve got on me is a chess set and a copy of my holovid collection. Unless it’s illegal to walk out of a building, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“I have the means, if you have the will to go through with it.”

“What, you’ve got a hovercar?”

“Inefficient,” Spock hissed, and advanced on Jim in a somewhat threatening manner, although Jim appeared oddly unthreatened by it. They continued until Jim’s back was pressed against the door to the staircase, both of Spock’s hands splayed on the plastisteel beside her head. They looked like human lovers, pressed together for a moment of intimacy. It was an effective method of ensuring no Surakian Vulcan would watch too closely, thereby lending more credence to their distraction.

Spock found herself saying, “My shuttle is capable of warp point eight two.”

Jim blinked. “You have your own shuttle?”

“Among other things,” Spock assured as her identity chip and a cash card was slipped into Jim’s front pant pocket, hidden by Jim’s arm coming up to pull Spock closer into a half embrace.

Jim’s mouth was by Spock’s ear: “You not coming with me?”

“Is the point not to leave me behind?”

“No.” The lips grazing Spock’s cheek turn up in a smile. “It’s not.”

Spock tilted their temples together until they brushed, skin on skin. A shiver raced between them. “I will endeavor for your freedom from here. Go. Take the time to reconsider. When next we meet, let it be as equals.”

Jim pulled away first, mouth quirked. “Thanks, Spock. See you around.”

And then she was gone. Spock debated returning to the conference hall and immediately dismissed it. What Jim needed now was the time in which to escape unnoticed, and Spock was adept at forging appropriate distractions.

She returned to the hallway with the second nearest bathroom to the conference hall and proceeded to wait to be discovered. When questioned, Spock would pull on Lady Amanda’s most enthusiastic teaching: Do not lie. Tell only the truths surrounding what they want to hear, and they will hear only what they want. A ‘white’ lie, if needs must.

It was Sarek’s most utilized teaching as well.

The Security Directorate was not operating up to the normal standard. 16.38 minutes passed since they had left the conference hall before the door to the bathroom opened and an unwelcome yet familiar face looked inside, eyes narrowed in emotive suspicion. The flagrant emotion only furthered Spock’s dislike. “Spock, son of Sarek,” he snapped. “Where is the human girl?”

“Security Minister Stel,” Spock greeted politely, eyes wide and serene. “Miss Kirk professed gastrointestinal distress. In order to facilitate her privacy, I secluded myself here as this is the second closest lavatory to the meeting hall. She should have gone to the only lavatory that is closer.”

Translation: Jim faked a stomachache and logically, to give you the impression that I believed it, I would be a gentlemen and give her the closest bathroom while I camped out here to waste your time.

It was a very good thing that Minister Stel did not hear that translation.

He growled, “Come with me,” and Spock affected an air of innocence and obeyed, then picked up a PADD as soon as they were seated in the conference hall and signed over partial ownership of her shuttle without a blink.

The innocent act lasted only until the security footage had been checked. Sloppy indeed, Spock thought with satisfaction, and gave up the PADD without a fight once the deception had been discovered. But, at the very least, Jim would have forty minutes of open space for a head start.

V’Las rounded on Spock with cold fury and demanded, “Why have you done this?”

Spock met the Minister’s eyes. Then she turned and looked each Minister in the eyes, regarding them coldly and dispassionately in return. When her eyes landed on V’Las again, Spock felt something akin to peace settle in her bones.

“I will not take the unwilling.”

* * *

Spock of Vulcan, Age 15. Stardate 2245.

Now, however, Spock was alone with the memory of their only two meetings. Jim had been discovered on a different shuttle heading toward a colony on Mars and, in the interest of immediacy, Spock was sent to follow instead of Jim being fetched back.

Not that she cared, of course. Spock was floating, burning, elated; nothing could touch her, nothing could mar her satisfaction.

It was precisely nine hours after Jim’s scheduled arrival time on the starbase orbiting Mars, and Jim was still free.

The Vulcan Security Directorate knew where Jim was. They had had her cornered in orbit. And yet Spock was sitting alone in house arrest in the studio apartment set aside for their use, hands becoming progressively less steady during the prolonged meditation, and _Jim was still free._

If Spock were prone to flights of fancy, she might compose the Lady Amanda a letter at that moment. _Mother,_ she would say, _your son is well and primed with satisfaction. Lady James asked of me a favor and I did as you bade me: I treated her with decorum and respect and I gave her my aid, and that is the reason why I now reside in confinement upon Mars._

_I do not regret my actions, for to do so would be illogical. Although our bonding is not guaranteed, I will treat Miss Kirk as my future bonded and desired bondmate deserves. To that end, I will give James all that she needs. I will give her all that she asks for. And I will provide all that she deserves but does not ask for, and I will give my utmost so that Miss Kirk will be content with me and my regard for her. Farewell, Mother, and know that your son is and will always ‘treat James right’._

An unasked-for surge of pride slithered down Spock’s spine, settling in the region near a Vulcan heart or a human liver.

James had successfully evaded all authorities for 3.25 days now.

This also meant that James and Spock would not have time to become acquainted before their ceremony. While possibly illogical, Spock felt desire for that time to themselves. Fourteen hours exactly remained until their joint appointment with a respected mind adept, Spock's own distant cousin T'Pau, and their limited time was being spent actively undermining the point of this whole endeavor on James’ part... and no longer pretending to not agree with James’ protest on Spock’s.

_I will not take the unwilling,_ Spock had repeated when the news of James’ location and imminent capture had reached them that morning.

_If this theory of theirs is correct,_ Lady T’Pau had replied, eyes both icy and sharp, _then you will not have to._

If the theory was correct.

Until then, Spock agreed with Jim’s interpretation: This endeavor was mental coercion. Jim did not need to submit, and Spock would not force her to. Lady T’Pau did not betray her opinion either way, and since that meeting Spock had been left alone with the mutinous thoughts. Another six hours passed in solitude.

The hiss of the outer lock disengaging was the only warning before the door to outside opened. A mildly sedated teenager was thrown into the mud room and left on the floor, groaning piteously at the edge of Spock's line of sight. Two bags of presumably James’ belongings were tossed unceremoniously after her, and a clipboard landed at the teenager’s feet as the door hissed shut.

A clipboard, Spock marveled. How archaic.

Then again, all PADDs had been confiscated after Spock had hacked the security feed to cover Jim’s escape. Spock felt warm at the reminder.

The pile of baggage and human-treated-like-baggage stopped moving. The person’s identity could not be confirmed without further evidence; however, it appeared safe to assume that Jim had, at long last, been brought to yield.

“James Tiberius Kirk?”

“This is she,” came the tired drawl from the lump on the floor. “May I ask who is calling?”

Spock refused to rise to the bait. “Jim. Would you consent to the procedure so that we may both part this facility?”

Silence spread across the apartment. One of James’ legs twitched, kicking the clipboard into the wall. “What?” she said at last. “I could have sworn you just said something really stupid just now. You sure you’re a vulcan?"

Spock breathed deeply. “You have been briefed on the situation.”

“How about you assume they lied to me about that, too, and tell me again. From the beginning.”

On the off chance that James had perhaps received brain damage, (or, more charitably, perhaps she was merely confused from being sedated and thrown into a cell,) Spock reigned in her growing frustration and ground out the abridged version of the current events.

“During the year of your birth, our respective governments were informed beings with our names and general characteristics over several parallel and alternate threads of existence. These beings have almost invariably formed strong mental bonds with one another due to innate compatibility between their minds."

“Blah blah bla-- sorry, go on.” Jim brought up a forearm to hide her face. Spock’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“More recently, someone from your local government has requested aid from mine, indicating the aforementioned mental compatibility as a method of filial association. Despite the illogic, my government agreed to provide aid upon the initiation - and subsequent study - of a specific mental bond between you and I, for the sake of scientific advancement.”

“Okay, yeah, I get all that. But why us?” Jim made a frustrated noise and rolled over onto her stomach, face down on the entryway floor. “Why now? Why not just wait for us to embrace our destiny at the ripe old age of forty five like the rest of the world?”

A sense of unease filled Spock at the words. Did Jim not know…? Did the world at large enjoy leaving Jim entirely in the dark?

“The colony requesting aid... The request was put forth by your uncle.”

Jim’s breath whooshed out between her teeth. “So I really have been whored out to aliens. We both have.”

“We have not,” Spock said quickly, surprise and sudden understanding suffusing the stiff Vulcan tones. Addressing the human’s misconceptions would likely facilitate their escape much more quickly. “Ours is not meant to be a sexual congress. The t’hy’la bond is legendary in its properties but it is not, and cannot be, one-sided. We are, in the human vernacular, merely here to see if we can join minds and become ‘friends’.”

“Yeah, I literally heard you use quotes on that.” Jim rolled over onto her back. The familiar face showed weariness that none of her official photos had shown. “This isn’t going to work.”

Spock shifted, one foot curled tighter under a thigh, still in a position apt for meditation. “It could work. Another facet of t’hy’len is that of brotherhood.”

“Oh goody, there’s multiple _facets_. What else? Let me guess: The next aspect of study is gonna be on vulcan Kirk babies.”

There was a moment of pointed silence. Jim’s intractable demeanor went icy fast.

“Oh you’re fucking shitting me. You just said this wasn’t about sex!”

“I am less than enamored with that prospect as well," she agreed, then frowned. “And I did not lie. Sexual intercourse is not required to procure offspring.”

“Yeah, says the one who doesn’t have to be _pregnant_.” Jim laughed incredulously. “Fuck. Government-mandated babies. Those holovids from the 21st Century had it right.”

Spock’s tone was kept decidedly even. “...I would not be averse to having my body undergo the pregnancy instead.”

Jim’s head snapped up. “What?”

Spock ignored her. “The point remains, you and I are not required to do any such thing. We are merely to be bound mind to mind in a platonic fashion, and to also provide the Vulcan Science Institute with ample opportunity to study the bond as it develops over our lifetimes.” Spock’s straightened imperceptibly. “If successful, we will become the first case study of such a bond and, furthermore, our data points will include a strong pre-bond baseline. Our situation is scientifically ideal.”

James kicked at the clipboard again. “How invaluable.”

“It is.” Spock’s eyebrows furrowed. “I must admit that I do not understand your aversion to this. We would be saving lives at minor personal cost.”

“I dunno, something about having someone else promise my brain to an alien for some-- fuck, I don’t even know what I’m being sold out for! Why would I want this?”

Another concession, perhaps, needed to be put forth. Spock stood in a smooth motion and strode across the room to remove Jim from the pile of belongings, but was stopped when Jim flinched away. 

“Jim.” Her hands went behind her back. “The bond need not be invasive. The k’war’ma’khon is a bond between extended family members: It is unobtrusive and will not allow me access to your thoughts or emotions. At this moment, I am only capable of feeling the presence of one member of my entire filial clan with any distinction. The awareness only encompasses the acknowledgement that the individual lives.”

The information, freely given and unwillingly received, seemed to have done it’s purpose: Kirk’s curiosity was peaked. She glanced up at Spock with both eyebrows raised. “So... what specific kinds of bonds are out there?”

Spock paused. “There are too many to enumerate all of them verbally.”

Jim shook a hand dismissively. “I’m sure there can’t be that many. Just give me the scoop.”

“ _Jim_.”

From Spock, Jim’s name in that tone was the equivalent of a mother saying her son’s full name in sequence: _James Tiberius Kirk, you get your ass in this house right this minute_ \-- Jim snapped to attention, eyes full on Spock.

Spock’s tone gentled slightly.

“There exist thousands of variants on mental bonds, Jim. To suggest otherwise would implicate a belief that _Homo eridani sapiens_ do not form intricate intimate relationships such as _Homo sol sapiens_ do.” Their eyes met and held. “You do not believe that.”

Jim ran a hand through her hair rapidly, mussing up her previously-unruly hair even further. “Yeah. Sorry. You know what I meant though.” Her eyes flick back up to Spock’s. “How do we do this and give them the finger at the same time?”

“I do not feel the urge to… impress upon the Vulcan High Council the error of their ways in that manner. However, I swore to aid you and I intend to do as you wish in these matters.”

“So you’ll just go along with whatever I choose?”

Spock did not fidget but did snap even further to attention. She did not answer, and eventually Jim’s demeanor softened.

“Just tell me our options, Spock,” she said, not unkindly.

Spock looked away momentarily. “I could summarize the five basic categories of bonds, and you could choose what you find to be a suitable path,” Spock began slowly, and almost smiled at Jim’s enthusiastic nodding. “Very well. The next most basic and integral bond is the family bond; It is stronger and more personal than the k’war’ma’khon. I share one such bond with each of my parents, and also with my brother.”

Jim grimaced. “Which is exactly what they want from us. Right? No thanks.”

“It is similar, yes, but I digress. The third type of bond is used by healers and religious leaders to facilitate medical treatment or communion. It is impractical for our situation: I have no knowledge of how to create nor manipulate such a bond. Next would be bonds indicating marriage, sexual, or romantic life-long commitments. The fifth category is reserved for hierarchical situations, which is also less than ideal. A commanding officer and their subordinate may make such a bond, or an emperor and their trusted councilors.”

“So our options are marriage or underling.” Jim lifted her head to let it thud back down on the floor. “Fuck.”

“That appears to be the case, yes. I have no desire to be subservient to you, nor would vice versa appeal to me.”

“So. Marriage.” Jim sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a long whoosh. She sat up and stared up at Spock. “Okay. You’re being awfully cooperative. Spill the beans, fiance dearest.”

Spock blinked. “I do not know what information you are asking for.”

Jim pulled herself to her feet in a sleek roll of abdominal muscles, hands free at her sides. Her nose came up to Spock’s chin, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You helped me escape, and now you’re trying to find any way at all that I’d agree to this thing between us. Why?”

“We would be saving lives, at little cost to ourselves. The needs of the many…”

“Whose lives, Spock? And why won’t you guys help us out without all of this?”

“Whose…?” Spock felt incapable of speech for a very long moment. For the second time in their acquaintance, a bright thunderous surge of anger roared up Spock’s back, incited for Jim’s sake. She wrestled with the flames, dragged coherence and control back over the desire to make someone bleed for the cruelty they had wrought. “You do not… no one has…?”

Spock wrenched control over her emotions, ruthlessly stomping them out, and took in a ragged breath. “No one has informed you of the blight on Tarsus IV.”

Jim’s eyes widened then narrowed sharply, then widened again in understanding. “No way. I was just there last month.”

A month? “You had said you had not spoken to your uncle for one year when we spoke with the Vulcan Administrators three days ago,” Spock reminded her, but Jim waved a hand dismissively.

“Yeah, because of them, actually, but never mind that, tell me the rest. The Federation doesn't just go and abandon a colony, so what _happened_?”

Spock stared at her. Had Jim lied to the leaders of the Vulcan High Council? And if she hadn’t, why was her uncle still her legal guardian if they hadn’t spoken in a year?

And what had Jim been doing on her own for the last month?

No, focus. Spock grimaced faintly and took a step closer to be by Jim’s side.

“As you wish, Jim. The local population on the colony overthrew the Starfleet-implemented government and seceded from the Federation twenty-two days ago. As they are no longer part of the Federation, and the planet itself is not capable of warp travel, the Vulcan High Council cannot interfere. However, any individual with dual citizenship - a member of the colony and also a member of the Federation - would be capable of requesting aid on the colony’s behalf.”

“Oh, and I just happen to be manipulated into fitting the bill.”

Spock’s eyes burned. “Yes, Jim.”

Jim blew up.

“Okay. Okay, fuck, I get it! I get it. Frank’s my legal guardian when mom’s out in space, and he needs a loophole to get the Vulcans to cooperate, and that’s me. And instead of just telling me the whole story and asking me, he threw me at you and hoped we would…. Well, fuck them! God, why… I’m not some disobedient kid who needs to be handheld, and I’m not just a sacrificial pawn they can throw around just because they don’t want to lower themselves for one goddamn minute and talk to their own kid!”

Spock allowed Jim another couple kicks and curses before speaking. “Are you done yelling?”

Jim’s breath hissed out through her nose. “Yes. Okay. Marriage. Are you with me?”

“Logically speaking, this plan differs little from the one you vehemently protest to. However,” Spock cut her off, pressing onward over Jim’s protests, “I agree. It differs enough to make the distinction notable in its worth. A bond of our choosing is much preferable to the alternative.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“Affirmative.”

A shiver raced across Jim’s body, coalescing in a cheeky grin. Spock marveled at Jim’s ability to compartmentalize and dissipate the pent up emotion within such a brief moment; Vulcan physiology would not allow such a feat. Jim whipped around and pushed right into Spock's personal space, and made some complicated hand movement between their bodies with one hand. “Alright, let’s do this. Marry me, babe.”

Spock stared at her.

There truly was no need to prevaricate. Spock knew Jim well enough to know when the human’s mind was set on a goal; It took no time at all to realize that fact. She also knew herself well enough to know when her own mind was set. With some trepidation, Spock placed a steady hand on Jim’s face and lowered her shields so that their minds could brush directly for the first time, intrigued that Jim had tilted her face upward to accommodate and meet her eyes. The thought Spock had been anticipating - _I’m gonna get those fuckers_ \- was buried under Jim's surface thoughts of a burning sensation not unlike lust, and Spock’s hand twitched on Jim’s face. Her eyes widened.

“Woah. I felt you hesitate. Is that-- is that it? Or are you gonna…?”

“I have not initiated the procedure yet. It appears our minds are especially compatible, as predicted, and as such… I should not lay any foundation of mental work without first speaking with you about a topic I have avoided thus far.”

Jim jerked back, blinking rapidly. “Another one? What is it?” Her eyes narrowed. “And stop hesitating, you’re freaking me out. Just tell me, and I promise I won’t flip out.” A pause. “Unless it’s about spiders or Klingons. Fuck those guys.”

“Are female Klingons--”

“Spock, please.”

Spock nodded decisively, and took a brief moment to beat back the flood of uncertainty that had been unleashed. “My mind is female. I intend for my body to follow suit.”

Jim did not look up and down Spock’s body. She didn’t move her eyes from Spock’s. “...Um.”

“I tell you now so that you are fully aware. I will be sterile after the surgical procedure I intend to undergo the day I reach the age of majority; However, my gametes have already been frozen for future use, if you so desire. The manual production of such a sample would be unfruitful in the company of others.”

Jim blinked. _Manual production of gametes_ , she mouthed slowly. “So… I think I get what you’re saying. Do you… not like girls?”

“I do not find your form displeasing,” Spock replied, which wasn’t an answer at all.

“But that’s just not enough to knock me up when Daddy VHC comes calling.”

“Jim.”

“ _Spock_.” Her tone was exasperated but her mouth curved upward in mirth. Spock gave her a brief look of amusement in return.

“Jim, I am not an ideal husband for you or for anyone else. I am, however, amenable to being your _wife_. Toward being your partner and equal, I have no complaint. Knowing now that I am...imperfect, as a mate, I must ask you again. Do you accept?”

Jim frowned. “Why would I care if you…? It’s your body.”

Spock blinked rapidly, surprised. “It was a matter of controversy. Is. It currently is a matter of controversy.”

A slow grin overtook Jim’s face. “Well fuck them too, then. This marriage is about you and me and our brains, and telling the rest of them to shove it.” Her grin only grew in intensity. “Meaning you’re perfect however you wanna be.”

A flicker of mental awareness against Spock’s mind alerted her to the presence of a distant family member several hallways away, converging on their location quickly. The k’war’ma’khon vibrated intensely as the individual approached. “You must be certain, Jim. We are running out of time.”

Jim exploded into motion; she span on her heels and threw both hands in the air, grabbed her hair with a guttural yowl of dissatisfaction and pulled at her roots until it undoubtedly hurt.

“How? _How can I be certain_? Spock, I’m willing to marry you just so that some government goon doesn’t get the last laugh: _Nothing_ about this is okay, okay? Yes, I consent, but no, I do not have any fucking idea what I am doing here.”

“Jim--” It was too late. Spock reached for her but the door was already opening.

An older woman dressed in the fanciest robes Jim had ever seen - or so Jim’s whispered exclamation informed them - stepped into the room.

“What?” Jim swung around and actually laughed in surprise. “I’m dreaming. Blonde vulcans?”

“Jim,” Spock hissed. She knelt respectfully and bowed her head, and gestured for Jim to follow suit, not that the human did. “Healer Adept T’Pau.”

The door shut behind T’Pau. The older woman, indeed a blond vulcan healer, glanced over them both before focusing on Spock. “Time has escaped thee; thy decision must be made now. How may I assist ye?”

Jim, predictably, did not act with decorum and tact when faced with such a question.

“Spock,” Jim said slowly, and then with growing urgency, “Spock, this is it!” She ran to Spock’s side and turned to face T’Pau, excitement thrumming palpably through her. “You’re a mind mage, right? You can teach Spock how to make one of those communion bond things, the religious ones.”

T’Pau stared at them dispassionately, and Spock’s nostrils flared with annoyance. “Jim, kindly cease speaking. My apologies, Healer Adept. Your service honors us. What my companion means to relay is that we do not consent to the specific bonding being asked of us, and our intent is to resist further coercion in this matter.”

“A child could have predicted that,” T’Pau intoned dryly, surprising them both. “There was an 80.62% chance thee would have committed to matrimony before the ceremony upon the morrow. I would not see ye bound without the knowledge of precisely what ye would be enduring for thy current loyalties, and that is why I am here.”

"Yes," Jim breathed out fiercely, and when Jim’s voice cracked on the second word Spock’s eyes snapped to her, horrified to find Jim right on the brink of a full breakdown. "Please yes. Please.”

Spock reached for Jim's sleeve, and Jim turned to her, clasping her bare hands around Spock's. Her eyes were full to the brim and about to overflow, and Spock hadn’t even noticed the emotion that must have been building just beneath the surface until it shone with hope in their grasp. “Please, do it. I don’t want what they’re asking of us, but I do want Spock. If you can help us, I want your help.”

Spock stared at her.

T’Pau nodded stiffly. “You are aware that any bond you create now will very likely morph as you age and become the very thing you are currently avoiding.”

“Yeah, and I want it to. But not now, not like this. All I want is time.”

Spock continued staring.

The Adept’s eyes found their way to Spock. “And do you consent, Spock?”

_Do right by her._

“Affirmative,” she whispered. **  
**

“Then prepare yourself, and kneel,” T’Pau said.

They knelt side by side on the polished aluminum floor, where T’Pau wasted nothing: Not her words, and most certainly not her time. The Healer Adept’s fingers settled on their faces and, with only that as warning, all three of them were dragged down into their minds.

The mental landscape before them was barren. Like a ball of plastisteel in the direct path of the sun, it acknowledged the foreign presence of the Healer and Spock and then deflected all intent, a reflection of the light that the vulcan minds cast. It was, of course, merely the outside of Jim’s mind, but even then Spock felt surprise at the sheer reflective surface she now faced. The entirety of Jim’s mind was behind an effective barrier. Someone had erected a shield.

Surprise flooded the landscape, signalling Jim’s conscious participation in the event. “This is so cool!” she said, and Spock realized that the content of Jim’s thoughts were blocked by the shield but Jim’s emotions were not. Her awareness buzzed about their presence, curious and inquisitive and, as Lady T’Pau readily informed them, unnecessarily loud in her appreciation.

“Sorry.” Jim pulled back her thoughts even further behind the shields. Spock watched in enraptured fascination. “Spock? Something on my face?”

“Who created this shield for you? You are able to maintain it through your own efforts flawlessly; however, the original architecture is Vulcan in origin, and it is designed for protection against telepathic assault. Furthermore…”

T’Pau’s mental voice flickered to the forefront. “Children. Focus.”

“Yeah, right, sorry.” Jim seemed to gather herself rather well, considering her status as a non-telepath, although now it was quite apparent that she had some unexpected mental training. “What do I do?”

“Do not fight me.”

And with that, T’Pau deftly punctured Jim’s mental shields.

Jim’s yelp of surprise did not bring with it a tinge of pain, but Spock was still distracted by her alarm enough to not notice when T’Pau came around to snip at Spock’s shields as well. A long gold-red ribbon was cut from the very fabric of Spock’s mind and, likewise, T’Pau deftly unwound silvery threads of Jim’s and pulled them through the hole she had made.

“Medicinal or sacred?” T’Pau asked blandly, business as usual. Jim floundered.

“Oh um! Medical?”

Spock riled to Jim’s cause. “Affirmative. A medicinal bond would be most appreciated.”

A twist in T'Pau's grip and the threads of _Jim_ braided together all on their own. A tug, a pinch-- and the ribbon of _Spock_ unfurled at the base so that the hollow center became visible. The braided threads of Jim’s mind were slipped up the center of Spock’s ribbon and then the pinch stopped, deflating the ribbon around the braid and trapping it within.

From there the ribbon seemed to know what to do. It stretched and twisted on its own until the ends touched, fused to form a single circular loop, and then laid itself over the puncture wound in Jim’s shields. It flattened to the surface as if pretending to be painted on, but then the ragged edges of the shield grasped the ribbon and pulled it inside, successfully assimilating it into Jim’s inner mind just beneath the surface.

All at once, Spock surfaced back in the physical world. Her eyes blinked open and, outside their heads again, she could only marvel at how simple it all seemed once she had seen it. There was no way she could emulate the act without practice, but that exercise, however extensive the skill behind it, was a solution both delicate and elegant. She let out the breath she’d been holding.

“You laced a segment of my mind with Jim’s mental signature and then allowed it to be reabsorbed into her consciousness.”

The statement was not quite a question. Her tone of voice was not quite awe.

T’Pau stood regally and gave a single cool nod. “Seek thyself within her and ye shall find entry.”

Jim shuddered.

“It is done,” T’Pau continued. “Pray thee do not abuse the privilege ye have been given."

The door hissed closed behind the Healer’s back. Jim sank slowly down to the floor, elbows pressed against the plastisteel as she worked to get her breath back. She glanced up to meet Spock’s eyes, then grinned open mouthed. “Do you think she was talking to me?”

* * *

 


	3. How we came to unify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated to reflect the start of each new chapter.
> 
> She's older than Jim by six years, older than Spock by three. With a forceful personality and although being almost perpetually infuriated, she manages to secure Spock's loyalty by doing one thing in particular: She treats Jim right. 
> 
> Or, wherein the nightmares begin slow and the trio comes together.

 

James Tiberius Kirk, Age 11. Stardate 2244.

 

A shuddering breath escaped her lungs at last, and Jim's body relaxed until her forehead sank to the polished floor.

"It's over," she breathed. A hysterical bubble of laughter drifted to the surface and she let it out, freely giving over to the rush of relief. "We did it. We really did it."

"Jim." A bare foot settled in her field of vision. "You appear distressed, and I have been instructed on multiple occasions on how to give proper aftercare after an intense experience such as what we have just shared. Are you experiencing adverse side-effects to the meld, or are you in need of aftercare?" 

"Do I look like I am?" 

"Yes." 

Jim laughed again. She sat back on her heels and grinned up at Spock, arms wide and welcoming. "I'm relieved, dummy, aren't you? We did it, we actually did it. We're free." Spock's face went blanker than usual, tinged with what Jim would characterize as apprehension, and suddenly the elation fell out of Jim's expression. "What? What is it?" 

"You are behaving erratically. We are not 'free', Jim, nor will we ever be willingly released from our--" Jim rolled her eyes and Spock stopped mid-sentence. "Are you experiencing some sort of seizure?"

"C'mon, don't be a party pooper. We won that one, Spock. You seriously trying to tell me you're not ec-fucking-static about all this?"

Spock stared at her for a long moment. Then he shook his head and turned away. "My research has informed me that human behavior wavers from predictable norms when blood sugar levels drop. I will prepare some food." 

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" But Jim was laughing again, more amused than insulted. She picked herself up and went to sit on the room's only bed-- subtle, that. Her mood dimmed somewhat at the reminder of their enforced cohabitation. "So... is that a no?"

"Please clarify your query." 

"This thing, between us. The bond. Do you like it?"

"Vulcans, as a rule, do not admit to 'liking' anything." 

"Then half-admit something."

Spock's lip quirked faintly. "As you wish."

Jim waited but it looked like he was doing her the honor of actually taking a moment to think the question over, and she squirmed impatiently on the top sheet, and then jumped up quickly when she realized she'd tracked dirt all over the bed.  She searched out clean bedding in the cabinets in the little nook beside the little kitchenette, but gave up almost immediately. The entire linens closet was organized in vacuum sealed packs the size of a comm device and labeled in that fancy vulcan script. Unless she wanted to open a dozen packages just to find one thing, it was useless. 

"Spock?"

"Jim. I am satisfied with the arrangement as it stands," he said decisively, and Jim whirled around to see him ruffling through the replicator nonchalantly.

A slow grin came over her face. "Yeah?"

"I would not lie to you in this, Jim. Your continued health and goodwill is what I desire most at this time, and being bound to your mind in this manner easily facilitates that goal. Whether or not a deeper bond would be more satisfactory remains to be seen, and, at any rate, you and I are scheduled to return to earth and cohabitate until graduation from a respected learning facility."

"You mean Starfleet," Jim interrupted. Her mom had said something about that, before she went off to to live with Uncle Frank and Georgia left on a five year mission to nowhere. Jim started aggressively chewing on her bottom lip. 

"Starfleet Junior Academy is most probable, yes. This will allow us approximately 4.4 years to familiarize ourselves with each other." He paused momentarily. "It is quite likely that our bond will change drastically within that time frame. For now, I am content with what we have." 

"Content." Jim winced at the taste of copper in her mouth, and made a concentrated effort to _stop_ chewing. "Okay. Okay, yeah, alright. I can be content with this, yeah." She shut the cupboard and leaned back against the door, sliding down to the floor so that Spock was out of sight on the other side of the island counter. "It's kind of...weird, though." 

"Clarify?" 

She shrugged. "This bond thing. I thought I'd have you in my head all the time but you're not there. I can't feel you at all. You sure it took?" 

"I am certain that I am bound to you. Perhaps if you allowed yourself some time to meditate you would be able to explore the link more easily." 

Jim blinked. "Yeah, I don't think meditation's my thing." But she could see how it might help and, despite her verbal protest, her eyes drifted shut as her attention turned inward in order to find where  _Spock_ now fit inside her own mind--

Well. Where the bond to him was, at least. That hula-hoop thing. She cast about wildly for a bit, looking for an imperfection anywhere inside her head, but the inner surface of the shield was as smooth and unblemished as ever before and there were no _Not-Jim_ thoughts brushing against her own, which, again, kind of threw her for a loop.

She'd always been able to see intruders before, but even if something "felt" different now, which it didn't, everything looked the same. But... there might be, if she thought hard enough, a hint of cinnamon where there wasn't anything before. Jim blinked. 

"Does it smell like snickerdoodles?" 

Spock did not answer immediately, and Jim instantly knew she had made the jackpot.

"A non-telepathic mind might interpret the bond using any of the senses," he admitted at long last, which was basically Spock saying, "Yes, my brain is a sugar cookie," and Jim failed to hold back any and all evil laughter that thought spawned. 

 _Guess he didn't lie about this being a different type of bond,_ she mused, amused, then said, "Yeah, that's just fucking awesome." 

A quick prod at the vague area that "smelled" strange revealed it as both happy and sore, so the damage caused by T'Pau poking holes everywhere couldn't be all that bad, but it still felt really weird to Jim. There were no visual markings to even suggest the existence of the bond: She could smell it and, maybe, if she dared, taste it a bit, but it was absolutely invisible against the backdrop of the shield. Was that because the bond and shield were both made of Spocks, or was she just missing something?

She frowned, both inside and out, because she still couldn't feel Spock's mind.

It had to be there. There was something... slick, slippery underneath the shield where T'Pau had punctured it, almost as if someone'd put plastic wrap around Jim's brain and then spritzed it with water, but the area was tender to the touch and almost painful now, and that wasn't okay. Jim couldn't help a sickening moment where she had to wonder if the slickness was due to blood. 

Jim cleared the sudden frog out of her throat. "Spock? Do minds... um, bleed?" 

He was still somewhere in the kitchen, out of view, so she couldn't check his expression without standing. His normal monotone didn't suggest a particular reaction to her question. " _Homo sol_ possess fibrous mental structures," he replied blandly. 

"That's not a 'no'. That's definitely not a no, Spock." Jim's heart went into double time. "Oh god, it's true. Vulcan minds bleed."

"Jim?"

Because Jim was sure of it now. Playing with the substance had made it tacky between her mental fingers, dark and sticking to her 'skin', and it smelled sharply like iron at the back of her throat, which, really, was _not_ how she wanted to remember snickerdoodles in the future, and she had a crazy thought of _what does green blood even taste like_ , but now she knew, and her incredulity managed to manifest as strained laughter.

"You are experiencing panic. You must calm yourself or risk injury." Jim's eyes squeezed shut but the voice insisted, tugging at her mind in a way that wasn't quite due to Spock being profuse with his advice. "My bond to your mind is healthy; your mind is also in optimum condition at this time, but stress will change that. Calm, Jim. Focus on me and calm yourself."

A hand came forward to cup Jim's cheek, quickly followed by a second set of long fingers that made her jaw tingle, and Jim's eyes blinked opened.

Spock had knelt before her and was now bringing her face up until she was kneeling also, and then he brushed his thumbs across either side of her chin. The tingle at his fingertips along her skin intensified, and she was kind of surprised that she hadn't jump away when he had touched her face. But, really, considering how it felt, she wasn't really surprised at all.

Until Spock spoke, that was, and then Jim jumped away in frantic embarrassment. "Sorry!" she yelped, and then froze because what, exactly, was she apologizing for? Being touched? He ignored her at any rate.

Spock appeared amused, allowing both hands to drop to his sides. "Did you somehow find soil upon my shuttle? A neglected potted plant, perhaps?" 

Jim found herself in the uncomfortable position of having completely lost the conversation. It was a new sensation. 

"Huh?" 

"There is a sonic bathing unit recessed into the center-most wall," Spock suggested blandly, deadpan enough to startle Jim into a laugh. The panic attack dissipated as if it had never been, replaced by her normal brilliant grin.

"You sayin' I stink like Jefferies tube?" she joked, and then the single most wonderful thing to happen that day occurred right in front of her face.

One pointy unimpressed eyebrow rose in perfect mocking harmony on Spock's face, and Jim gaped at him, thinking only, _I would pay good money to make my face do that._ She lit up again. 

Spock merely blinked at her somewhat approvingly. "I am not. Your odor is not at that level of fetidity. I am merely saying you are covered in particles of loam and weathered rock, Jim."

And then he reached up and plucked a leaf from atop her head and the movement dislodged a cascade of silt and clay from her hair. Jim's cheeks proceeded to heat to a rich cherry glow.

"Shut  _up._ " 

"As you wish," he agreed easily, and the tension between them broke.

Spock stood and rifled through their luggage to offer Jim a bath towel, which she accepted with ill grace. At least he appeared to be amused by her mess rather than disgusted, but, pride irked, Jim stormed over to the bathing booth while valiantly trying to fight a smile. The mud on her scalp was starting to itch anyway. 

They fell into a rhythm with little relative ease after that. Jim washed her hair and Spock prepared them both a meal of grilled bread and fruit preserves, and he pretended not to smirk at Jim's ability to make a mess halfway across the room using only a sonic shower head. After cleaning up Jim went through the bags by the door and found a kit labeled 'Homo sol sapiens: Ablutions' and another labeled 'Preparatory supplies', and began frantically reading labels.

None of it was human in origin. Jim began thinking this was going to be an unfortunate theme if they stayed with the VSA any longer.

"Hey Spock," she called out, staring down at a packet of some random goo. "What's 'personal lubricant' do?"

There was a noise from the other side of the table. It... it almost sounded like someone choking. Jim glanced over. Spock was looking suspiciously nonchalant.

"Spock?"

"Lubricant is a material that reduces traction and viscosity, allowing the ease of friction. 'Personal' in this case refers to its intended application on or inside a humanoid being."

"Oh. Oh! Like the gel they put on me for that ultrasound."

"Yes." A pause. "What were the circumstances surrounding you being introduced to that medical procedure?" 

"Won't stain clothes, huh... Huh? Oh, spleen something, had to have surgery when I was a kid. Wasn't fun but they didn't have to remove anything so I guess I lucked out. What even _is_ this?" Jim laughed hard enough to almost drop the packet, and she glanced over to see Spock looking at it with faint distaste. "No, really, what would this even _be_ if it wasn't water-based? Oil? Honey?" Her laughter increased in intensity. "Oh god, that'd be so gross, and all over your skin-- no way!" She threw the packet back into the 'Preparations' bag and rustled around to look at more labels. "I guess we lucked out again, huh Spock?"

There was another strangled noise across the room but when Jim looked over Spock looked as perfectly serene as ever. Jim's eyes narrowed. "Hey Spock?"

Spock's jaw twitched minutely. "You have another inquiry?" And okay, so maybe Spock was a  _little_  out of breath. Jim grinned.

"Yeah. What's a pap smear?" 

Spock snatched the kit from her hands so fast she didn't even notice he'd moved before it was gone. She blinked at him, and he calmly recovered some dignity by standing up straight and refusing to meet her eyes.

"The Papanicolaou test is intended for adults - most typically biological females - possessing of a cervix to test for cervical cancer." He...might have grimaced, Jim couldn't tell. "It is not appropriate for an adolescent biological female and will be struck from our agenda."

Jim didn't even bother hiding her laughter this time. "Oh my god, are you trying to protect me from modern medicine?"

Spock deliberately made no move to answer. Jim's grin dimmed a bit and she halfheartedly took another dubious medical tool out of the bag, unsurprised when Spock removed the tool labeled 'speculum' from her grasp. It was creepy enough that Jim didn't even fight him.

"Don't look at me like that," she said. Spock's expression shifted from 'blankly mortified' to 'possibly chagrined, maybe, if you squint'. Jim looked away. "Whatever these guys throw at me, I can handle it, Spock. _We_ can handle it, okay? You don't need to go all caveman on me." She tossed him a flirty grin over her shoulder. "Unless that's your thing."

"That is not my 'thing', nor was it my intention to alienate you," Spock replied coolly, but Jim couldn't help but notice that he stopped everything to flush the whole prep kit down the recycler before he turned to face her, and that's when she saw that his hands were shaking.

Jim blinked. Spock must be absolutely-- furious? Embarrassed? Some emotion, at any rate, and Jim felt a quiver of guilt at placing him in that situation. "However, I also have no intention of letting anyone humiliate you, James. I will not allow your good nature to be tarnished."

A warm bubble of something fuzzy rose in Jim's chest.

"Call me Jim," she reminded him, and he gave her a stiff nod. "Okay, come here. I'm allowed to touch you, right?" 

Spock obediently decreased the distance between them to a few scant inches. "You have blanket permission to access my person and belongings in any non-harmful manner you see fit." 

"What?" 

"Yes, Jim. You are allowed to touch me." 

She laughed.

Jim stood on her toes to smack a kiss on Spock's cheek, which he allowed with only a slight widening of his eyes. "Good deeds should be rewarded. Even if you do have a hair-trigger," she teased, but then her breath caught in her throat because once again Spock acted in a manner she never would have expected. Spock must have been perfectly okay with them both having no personal space, at all, and, in fact, Spock closed the distance between their torsos by swaying until their bodies brushed and the contact held.

Two fingers settled on Jim's wrist, and obediently her heart began to race. 

"You taking my pulse?" 

"Yes. And no."

The tingling over her skin increased.

"With your mind?" she clarified, but he didn't answer.

Spock tilted Jim's face so that he could kiss her cheek in a chaste human fashion, then brushed his lips against her temple as well, and all the air in the room didn't seem enough in that moment. Jim might've begun to hyperventilate. 

"It is you who deserves commendation, Jim," he began, voice low and reverent, and all at once Jim felt dizzy and warm and meaningful. His fingers brushed over the inside of her wrist. "I am well aware of the sacrifice to your personal bounds that you have undertaken in this endeavor to acquiesce to Vulcan social mores, and further, in the name of science. I appreciate the effort you have gone through to accommodate that aspect of my upbringing and culture." 

Jim's jaw dropped. "Wait wait wait, Spock,  _no_ , this is not some great big sacrifice. I want to be your friend. I-I mean, hell, you've been at the back of my head my whole life."

"Hyperbole," he said, and that was confusing because no, Spock really had been there for ages.

"I... I guess?" She shook her head. Maybe just half her life then, since she was six then and eleven now, and that wasn't her whole life. "I mean, with this shield thing-- it's been years since my head's been all my own, you know? And Spock, he, he was  _so_ sure that I needed you. That I need you."

Spock pulled back like she'd dealt him a blow, and Jim flinched away, startled.

"I apologize," he said, tone gravely, and now he was refusing to meet her eyes again, which, damn it all, was exactly the opposite of what Jim had wanted. "I had momentarily forgotten that your mind was given a previous claim. I will not forget again."

He spoke over her yelp of, "No, hold on, that's not what I meant at all!"

"We would do well to move on and break our fast," he insisted firmly, taking a step away. "I have prepared kreyla and gespar for you to eat as a traditional morning meal. It is considered somewhat extravagant, although not to the point of hedonism." 

Jim gaped at him, mouth working without acoustics. Then she grit her teeth and nodded, determined to bring it up again later when she felt less like kicking him. "I... I don't think I can eat rocks, Spock."

Hah. Rocks. Spocks. She shoved the thought to the very back of her mind to laugh at. Also for later.

Spock stared blankly at her, then recovered without giving voice to the thought going through his head that must surely read as, 'Wow, humans fucking are dumb.' Jim flushed bright with thoughts of shameful inadequacy. Vulcans gave her that look a lot.

Spock turned back to the kitchen. "I have prepared gespar, a fruit from my birth planet. It is not the stone known as 'jasper' in English. Jasper is a rock; Gespar is a ripened flowering plant ovary."

Jim swallowed down a thousand words of embarrassed horror. "I'm not hungry." 

"Very well. I shall store your portion for your convenience." 

"Thanks," she griped.

But Jim eventually flashed him a smile anyway, and when she fled to busy herself with taking apart the communicator unit built into the wall, he allowed her the space to breathe.

 

.

 

The Council was called the next morning to check the validity of their bond. Jim visibly recoiled when ordered to submit to a mental inquiry, but Spock easily stepped forward to submit instead. T’Pau placed her hand on Spock’s face and lifted it away after only a couple of seconds.

“Thy bond is superficial but stable,” T'Pau declared without inflection, as if this wasn't the biggest news of the decade for half the Federation. That, Jim realized, was the best part about T'Pau. She was the best of everything it meant to be Vulcan all wrapped up in surprisingly light robes: Practical, calm, and efficient, and her poker face was glorious.

And no, that was not the nascent whispers of hero worship talking, even if Jim found herself blushing anyway.

“You are sure?” V’Las paced the length of the great table to where Jim stood. He eyed the human distrustfully, successfully stomping all over Jim's happy glow. She scowled right back at him. “There is no doubt?”

“Their katras have touched and each has been introduced to the other,” T’Pau said blandly. Jim’s heart did an internal somersault. Did T’Pau just…?

 _She totally just… half-truth bullshitted for us! Oh god, do I--_ _I have get her a thank you card,_  she realized. 

_And flowers._

Jim grinned over at Spock, feeling lighter than words for the first time in days because  _yes,_  finally! In the middle of all this political destiny wrangling bullshit, they finally had an ally.

An ally that _wasn't_  one of their parents.

_Fuck, a vulcan just ‘not-lied’ for me. For us._

_That is_ so _awesome._

The incredulous excitement must have been visible on Jim’s face. V’Las turned to her and his face grew dark in an instant. “I do not believe it,” he stated, and without warning his hand went careening toward Jim’s face.

Everything in Jim's head went blank in that moment, wiped clean. Her heart may have actually skipped a beat. When it started again, it flooded everywhere in her body with sudden torrents of adrenaline, and she launched herself behind Spock, because _no_. No no no, no _._

As was now becoming a pattern where Jim was concerned, anger erupted through Spock’s body; but this time Jim could actually feel his fury thrum beneath his skin, shared through the fabric of his robes. 

It also tingled. Jim hid her face against his back.

“You will not touch her,” Spock snapped. His hands raised a few inches in an aggressive clench, although they were quickly tamed back to his sides; whether to strike physically or mentally, Jim couldn’t tell, but either way the room was shocked into silence.

T’Pau’s voice pierced the sudden quiet. “There is thy proof, Administrator. No follower of Surak would fall to such emotionalism,” she stated calmly, and even Jim could tell that T'Pau was not talking about Spock, because that? _That_ was definitely a vulcan being passive aggressive and, okay, maybe hero worship was a good way to describe it now. “Unless, of course, there was a reason to be compromised," T'Pau continued calmly, staring V'Las down. "A reason, such as the formation of a mental bond.”

Jim’s head snapped up to Spock’s face but it was impossible to see his expression from that angle, and at any rate she knew it would have been smoothed clean. His shoulders remained tense: she could tell he was holding himself back. “Spock,” Jim whispered, and leaned in close against his back. “I need to talk to you. Alone. In our room.”

Spock gave V’Las another lingering glare before giving one sharp nod. “I will be returning Miss Kirk to our quarters. Once there, I shall personally ensure her comfort until we have landed on Terra. Jim,” he said, speaking to her even when his eyes never left V’Las. “I swear to you that no harm shall come to you while in my care.”

“Lets just go,” she whispered. One elegant vulcan hand came up to cover her back, nestled protectively over her spine, and with it Spock proceeded to guide her out of the conference hall.

Back in their room, Jim didn't protest when Spock practically manhandled her into his meditation alcove by the bed. She curled up at Spock's back with the blanket he provided, and eventually she slept. Her dreams were of flame and peril, like an old European knight coming upon an egg in a dragon's nest, but in that way of dreams where the laws of reality were blurred. In the end she woke disoriented, and, thinking on it in the artificial light of the space station, Jim truly had no idea if she had been the knight or if she had been the egg. 

 

.

 

The return to Terra was worse than expected. A video clip of T’Pau-- “Thy bond is superficial but stable.” --was circulating every major news feed by the time their shuttle circled the planet.

“I thought gossip wasn’t logical,” Jim grumbled to herself. The shuttle was midway through landing in San Fran’s Starfleet HQ Dock, and with all of the expected groans and clanks of machinery being accompanied by applause and fricken _fireworks_ , Jim felt less than reassured. Her breath whooshed out all in a rush. “Sure didn’t stop someone from blabbing to the press.”

Spock didn’t look up from the main console. “The attention is distressing to you.”

“Yeah. No duh.”

Spock’s brow furrowed. He refrained from comment and continued monitoring their progress toward the loading bay where they would disembark, and, at the corner of his vision, Jim shrank in on herself in silence.

Discomfitted, but trying not to show it, Spock scanned their landing zone for alternatives. She saw him formulate the whole plan before he looked in her direction.

“James,” he prompted. She grunted. “If you believe yourself capable of disembarking through the rear port hatch, I am more than capable of providing a sufficient distraction.”

Jim perked up. “Really? You’re gonna make a habit of getting me out of trouble and letting me run away?”

“If need be,” Spock hedged. She snorted and he glanced away. He then admitted softly, “I will do what I can to ensure your continued privacy. Even in this.”

Jim stared at him for a moment, a slow smile spreading across her cheeks. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Except let’s both go through the back." **  
**

“Without a suitable distraction, our exit would be monitored,” he protested, which, Jim noticed, wasn't a 'no'.

“So let’s make an unsuitable distraction. C’mon, I don’t believe in leaving a man behind.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, and ignored Jim’s widening grin. He relented. “What would you suggest we do?” he asked, and Jim's grin became wicked.

“The emergency landing kit has flares.”

* * *

 

Fascinating. Eyes wide with laughter, cheekbones shaded bright red by the flare's reflection; Jim's face, a caricature of joy and abandon. She radiated peace. Contentment. In the midst of the panic they had caused, Jim was able to revel in their momentary freedom, lit silver and gold from deep within. It was highly pleasant to watch.

I would give anything to give her a reason to look at me that way. Anything, to have her freedom granted. And yet all I had to give up was the mask of a life that did not suit me anyway. The mask was a lie; the farce that was acquiescence. 

* * *

 

The vultures were circling ever closer. Jim’s hand on Spock’s sleeve slipped.

He swung around to grab at her but it was too late, the press dove through the space between them and they were forced to retreat, to flee in opposing directions. Jim tried to keep Spock in sight but nope, it was useless: He was faster, older, and actually trying to remain unseen, and he was out of sight before she could regain her breath.

Jim ran until the corridor was empty but for Starfleet personnel, and luckily none of them bothered her any. She paused to catch her breath at a fountain shaped like a warp core.

No need to panic. They were separated by the crowd but that was just temporary bad luck. They’d be back together in no time and that meant, in the meantime, Jim had to take care of herself.

Right? Right.

And it was totally okay to talk to yourself when you’re in the middle of an action movie. Ahem. Anyway. The plan?

Plan A: Find a corner and call Pike. Hide until help arrives.

Plan B: Find a corner and call Spock. Stage a rescue mission and-or wait until help arrives.

Plan C: Wallow in guilt for ten minutes because you thought to call Pike before you thought about either of the Spocks. Then call both Spocks and hide until help arrives.

“There, by the fountain!”

Plan D: Run run run oh shit, how did they find me here-- RUN!

The non-visibly gendered paparazzi swerved around the corner in droves, and Jim fled back into the maze of hallways. Six turns, two flights of stairs, and an impromptu turbolift later and Jim found herself absolutely lost but, thankfully, absolutely alone. She sat heavily on a bench to catch her breath.

“Miss Kirk!”

Crap, spoke to soon. Again.

Jim booked it down an unmarked corridor and then up yet another set of stairs with three floating cameras in tow, and slammed the door right in their lenses when she reached the next landing. Two or three heads poked out of their rooms -- oh, shit, was this cadet housing? Giant Starfleet logos all over the place said yes, and Jim was so, so screwed. There was no way in hell that every single person on that floor did not know Jim’s face.

A hand landed on Jim’s shoulder. She, politely, did not shriek in terror.

“Ouch! Shit, kid, don’t blow out my eardrums. Come on. You can hide out in my room.”

Jim snapped to attention. Every head in the hall had seen the woman now accosting Jim, and every head instantly popped back into their shells and slammed their doors, abandoning her to her fate. Either this woman was trustworthy and everyone knew it, or the entire floor of future Starfleet had zero moral courage.

The hand on Jim’s shoulder pulled her gently toward a room the woman was holding open with her other hand, and Jim didn’t care about how often people told her not to go home with strangers, at least this one didn’t have a camera pointed on her.

The first thing the woman did when the door shut behind them was yell.

“Are you an idiot? Don’t follow strangers home!” And then she whacked Jim across the back of the head.

“Ow! Damn it, hey, what was that for?”

“For you being stupid. And stop swearing.”

“I was under duress!”

“Yeah, which is the only reason I won’t hit you again. Dumbass kid.”

“Well I’m so sorry for not being born earlier,” Jim said sarcastically, which actually made the woman chuckle and her demeanor shifted sharply toward amusement.

“Come on, get out of the way. I bet no one’s fed you yet today.”

Jim screeched to a halt. “Fed me. _Fed_ me. How old do you think I am?”

“Hm. ‘Bout four?”

Jim gaped at her. But in the end she followed the woman into the kitchen, where she was plied with orange juice, a granola bar, and a banana, and grumbled under her breath, “I just got kidnapped, then beat and insulted by the hot kid in school. And now she’s feeding me rabbit food. Is this the real life?”

The woman snorted, true amusement taking over. “A _Queen_ fan, huh?”

Jim stared. The woman had heard Jim mumble five words of antique song lyric and came to the conclusion that Jim was referencing pop songs from two hundred years ago. Which she was. Jim let out an incredulous huff. “Okay, just tell me, is this heaven or hell because I honestly can’t tell anymore.”

“Drink your juice and get your damn shoes off of my floors.”

“Jeez, it’s hell, got it.” But Jim quirked a smile into her food and placed her kicks in the closet by the front door until she finished, and if she lingered by the entryway for a moment too long when it was time to go, well, neither of them mentioned it. The woman came up behind her and waited. “Um. What’s your name?”

“Leona.”

Leonard. It’s Leonard McCoy. It’s Leonard fricken McCoy. It’s _\-- fuck._

Jim swallowed. “That sounds suspiciously like the name of a friend of mine. Have we met?”

Leona sighed, then placed her back to the wall and crossed her arms across her chest. It was a strangely defensive posture that somehow put Jim a little bit less on edge. “Yeah, I’m guessing I’m her. Or him? It’s probably a guy, most of the McCoys on campus are male.”

A pained breath left Jim in a rush. “I’ve gotta go." **  
**

“Why?”

“Because-- did you just ask me why?” Jim spluttered. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? The people auditioning to be part of my big epic space opera.”

Neither of them had said it aloud yet but the word  _destiny_  seemed to hang over their heads.

Leona shrugged. “Yeah, I am, and what of it? You think just because I know we’re gonna be friends means I’m gonna treat your skinny ass any differently?”

“Pfft, you already do! As if you’d kidnap just anybody running by--”

“Chased by them damn vultures, you’re damned right I would, kid. And I have done, which is why this entire blasted building knows I won’t do you any harm, or we’d have the authorities in here in a heartbeat: Everyone knows shutterbugs ain’t allowed on 'fleet grounds, and there’s not a single sonuva in this entire blasted building that’d let the press harass a kid. Now get some sleep, the couch is getting cold.”

“What?” The conversation was changing so fast, Jim was getting whiplash. She turned just in time to receive a mouthful of blankets. “ _What_?” she yelped again, and was hit in the head with a pillow next. Leona raised a third projectile piece of bedding threateningly. 

“You haven’t slept in fifteen hours by my estimate, and longer than that if those body bags under your eyes ain’t lying to me. Call someone to pick you up in ten hours, and get some sleep.”

Jim had forgotten all about her comm. She pulled it out, winced at the increasingly frantic messages from basically everyone who had the number, and then noted the distinct absence of frantic messages from Spocks. Well. Unless three separate messages counted as ‘frantic’ for a vulcan. Which it might.

_Contact me when you are secure and I shall come fetch you._

_If not secure, contact me immediately._

_Contact me._

Three little lines of text was all she was worth to him. Jim sighed. She hadn’t really expected much else, but a little heartfelt worry might’ve been nice. She texted back _Don’t worry, I’m secure. Details in the morning_ and then took Leona’s advice and hit the hay.

It was the best night’s sleep she’d had in years.

**.**

 

Spock showed up in the morning. Jim, who hadn’t told him where she’d stayed the night, stared blankly. “Oh hey,” she said, and Spock tried very hard not to scowl in the doorway, with mixed results. “Sorry,” she added.

“Good, you’re here,” said Leona, stepping out of the bathroom in a long silk robe, and then didn’t even wait for the door to shut before she laid into Spock with the righteous fury of all Valkyries behind her. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Jim’s jaw dropped.

“Can’t you see the kid’s been out of her damn mind worried about you, and what were you doing? Leaving her alone in a hostile zone, is what you _did_ , and god bless the kid for not leaving your ass high and dry and running away the second she realized an irresponsible orc wasn’t worth her damn time. And for another thing-- yes Jim?”

Jim had wrapped both arms around one of Leona’s, holding her back from adding physical altercation to her verbal one, and the sudden attention gave her vertigo. “I uh,” Jim said intelligently. She rallied with, “I made coffee.”

“Oh thank god.”

And that was it. Leona fled to the kitchen and expected them to follow in her wake. They did, hurriedly after she snapped, “Get your asses out of the doorway. Siddown and eat like you aren’t the prehistoric troglodytes we all know you truly are. Kids these days, don’t know a healthy meal from a comm unit, I swear.”

Spock stood with his back to a solid wall and stayed far, far outside Leona’s reach.

In the kitchen, Jim sidled right up to the breakfast bar and made them all toast while Leona absorbed caffeine through the ceramic of her mug. “Butter, jam, or Nutella?” Jim asked, obviously toward Spock as Leona had already swallowed a slice dry.

Spock stared at the Nutella like it was poison. His expression said, quite clearly, “You eat that. For _breakfast_?”

“Don’t know what other meal you’d use it for,” Jim grumbled, and paid no mind to the fact that she had just answered Spock’s eyebrows as if facial expressions could join the conversation. Spock’s eyebrows furrowed further in confusion, but McCoy laughed suddenly, as if she got the joke. The girls shared a secretive grin.

Spock's eyes narrowed. 

After a pot of coffee had been successfully consumed in its entirely, tea was poured for the second round that, with a sudden inkling of good will, Leona actually deigned to share. Spock visibly found the tea subpar but wisely said nothing against it, and Leona span around in her seat to give them both a slightly more hospitable glare. “So, ladies and gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

“Jim and I are the only two individuals in attendance, Miss McCoy.”

“Yeah,” McCoy said slowly, as if Spock were completely missing the point. “I noticed that because I’m talking to you, Keebler.” At the continued blank look from the vulcan, she rolled her eyes. “Okay. Lady and gentleman. How do I get your butts out of my kitchen and back in your own?”

Jim interrupted Spock in the middle of saying, “Our residence does not have a kitchen,” by forcibly stepping on his toes. And then standing on his feet when that didn’t shut him up fast enough. “What are you doing?” he asked, and Jim threw her hands up in exasperation.

“How do we get out of here without getting caught, Spock? Where should we go?”

As Spock’s universe had narrowed down to include Jim’s needs above anything else, followed then by self-preservation, he must have spontaneously realized that he had never stated his reason for appearing in the first place. Or at least, that’s the only way Jim could justify his next statement.

“As you have surmised by my presence here,” which she hadn’t, “and by my unwillingness to leave despite our dubious welcome," again, Jim was oblivious, "our place of residence has been compromised,” which was really the proverbial sprinkles on that shitty cupcake.

“There’s paps in my room?” Jim grimaced, while Leona made a big deal about setting her cup of Earl Grey aside and placing her hands flat on the table like a mad queen about to scream off with their heads. Jim, with a healthy respect for women who could pull off that look, looked up at her expectantly.

“I’m gonna take a moment to ignore the fairy taking a potshot at my hospitality while he sits there eating my last slice of bread," she said lowly, glaring at Spock, "and save you both some trouble: There ain't a building on campus with as much security as this one-- and that's including the warp core lab --so stop pretending this is some big mystery and just move in already.”

Spock frowned deeply. “The Council has assured me that they will have a new residence for us available by the end of the week. In the meantime, they have provided a list of hotels they prefer,” he said, and Jim rolled her eyes.

“Our room was bugged, Spock. I don’t care what the Council wants, we’re moving somewhere safe and the VSA can either suck it. Or pay for way better security.”

McCoy snorted. “Girl after me own heart.” She sat back with a fresh pour of tea, willing to watch the kiddies work it out on their own. 

To be fair, McCoy had every right to be smug in this situation. Jim was still wearing Leona's microbe-patterned throw blanket.

Spock looked like he was going to argue so Jim, in a moment of pure brilliance, pulled out her secret weapon: The wide-eyed puppy gaze. “Jim.” Spock stared at her a moment longer, and she blinked first. Intentionally, so that her eyelashes would draw attention to her supposed distress. Spock ignored it all. “Do you feel safe here?”

“Hell yeah." Jim glanced over at Leona, who looked especially self-satisfied, and blushed through her attempt to sound casual. "I mean, yeah. Guess I do.” 

He nodded decisively. “Then I shall arrange for a dorm room in this building. Excuse me.”

And then he did. It took ten minutes and a willingness to hang up on not one, not two, but _four_ separate governmental officials, and then a preliminary rent deposit sent from his comm. He glanced up when it was over. "The room shall be ours within an hour. Floor twenty-two, first room on the right. Bedding and lunch are being delivered in four hours." He recited off a passcode and snapped his phone shut. "Is there anything else you require of me?"

Which, if Spock was trying to impress a girl, totally worked.

Leona whistled low and leaned back against the counter on her elbows. "Damn. You keeping him?"

Jim snorted. "Oh hell yeah." She smiled up at Spock with every ounce of exuberance at her disposal on display. "Thanks, Spock. I know I'm being bossy, but I really mean it. Thanks."

"You are most welcome, James."

"Jim. You're supposed to call me Jim." She frowned. "Hey, wait a minute, you were calling me Jim just fine earlier. What happened?"

When it looked like Spock wasn't going to answer, Leona nudged Jim's foot with her own. "Drink your tea, kid. You'll have plenty of time to argue with him later." 

Jim's grimace gave way to a shy little smile, and she glanced slyly over at Leona. "Doctor's orders?" 

When Leona's foot connected higher on Jim's calf, she grinned. 

* * *

 

 


End file.
